This morning, for the first time since our baby was born on Friday, I had to leave our nest--and Lena and Leo--in order to take Jaz, Luke and Zeb to camp. The knowledge that I would have to be separated from the baby, likely within days of his birth, had been weighing heavy on my mind since early on in the pregnancy. After the births of our other children, I couldn't conceive of being apart from our babies for even a few minutes. Many people offered to watch them for us so that we could get a break, and I always turned them down, feeling internal panic at the very thought. The first time I left Luke and Jaz was when they were 8 months old. Lena and I went out to see a show in celebration of the first anniversary of our civil union. We left the babies with my mom, who was confident and capable, and who the boys knew well, but I was still worried. I remember how naked I felt, walking around downtown without a baby (or two) strapped to my body. The show was pretty good, I think, but I'm not really sure since I was too busy itching the huge hives that developed all over my belly to pay much attention. We returned home to two crying babies, and, while my hives quickly disappeared once we were reunited, I decided right then to not leave them again until I really felt ready (which happened about a year later). I don't remember exactly the first time I ever left Zeb, but it was sometime after his first birthday. There was never any need for me to be separated from him, and I decided that it was best to trust my instincts in that regard. This morning I left Leo for the first time, only three days after his birth.
As much as I fretted for the past several months over how it would feel to have to be separated from Leo when he was still so tiny, the actual experience felt really pretty fine. I never once worried about him. I didn't feel naked when walking through town to pick up some Soothies for Lena. I knew that he was safe at home, most likely nursing in his Mama's arms. And as pleased as I am that this is the case--that I can leave my newborn baby for an hour without having a panic attack--it's also a bit heart-breaking for me.
I am thrilled to be getting the chance to experience what it's like to be a NGP (non-gestational parent), but the transition has not been completely easy for me. I remember so well what it felt like to lie in bed with our other three babies when they were new. The heaven of doing nothing but sleeping, nursing, and studying every little expression that would move across their faces. The way they so quickly learned my smell, and would settle as soon as they got a whiff of me. Knowing that I was providing them with everything that they needed via my breasts and my milk. I was in my element. Watching Lena do all of these things with our fourth son, I can't help but feel some pangs for what I'm not experiencing during this babymoon. I think it would be easier if I didn't know what I was missing, if I didn't know how you can feel like you're still physically connected to your baby even after the umbilical cord has been cut. Because I miss feeling that this time.
Don't get me wrong, I adore my new son with all of my being. I cherish every moment I get with him snuggled against my body. I can't wait to know him, to figure out what calms him, to learn what his different cries mean, to feel like he's a part of me. But I am very aware of the fact that even though Leo has two mothers, he only really needs one of them right now. Which is not to say that I feel helpless, in any way. I am keeping Lena well-fed, making sure she sleeps whenever she can, helping her to enjoy every moment of this blissful time by keeping our older kids relatively entertained (or at least keeping their drama out of her space). And I know that by meeting Lena's needs, I am, in turn, helping to meet Leo's needs. But when so much of my past newborn mothering experience has been about breastfeeding and being physically attached to my babies nearly 24 hours a day, it's hard to feel like I'm still a mother to this new boy, when everything is so different.
I know that our relationship will change and develop over time. I know that Leo will need me someday soon. That I will feel like I really am his mom, and that he really is my baby. I will be the mom who wears him on my back while I milk the goats. I will be the mom who takes him for rides in the bakfiets. I will be the mom who bathes with him, and then plays peek-a-boo with a towel and gives him a massage. I will learn how to be Leo's mother just like I learned how to be Luke, Jaz and Zeben's mother. Perhaps it will be a less instinctual form of mothering, but I'm sure that it will be no less fulfilling.
I want nothing more than for Lena to enjoy this fleeting experience to the absolute fullest. I do not resent her for being holed away in the bedroom, falling in love with our baby, resting and getting used to her new milky hormones. And it truly warms my heart to see her in her new maternal state. She's so beautiful and soft looking, with an amazing light in her eyes. But I am surprised by my own weepiness, by my slowness to adjust to this life change after counting down the days, waiting for our baby to be born.
Today Lena's milk came in--Leo is already nearly back at his birth weight; he's a most excellent nurser--but it is me, not Lena, who's fighting back tears, feeling lost and alone in my new role as Leo's other mother. I've been remarking over how the lack of postpartum hormones has actually been somewhat challenging for me (it's so much harder to wake up in the night!), but now I wonder if maybe I've absorbed some by osmosis as I deal with my NGP version of the baby blues. When I experienced this with our other babies, only briefly right when my milk came in, I found it most helpful to take a bath with them. So that's what I'm planning to do with Leo tonight, right after I get said other "babies" to bed.
And thus the journey begins.
In bliss, wearing 4-day-old Leo
The first time he felt the sun on his face
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