For 9 months I grew a baby. For 9 months I dreamed of her face. For 9 months I prepared for birth. For 9 months I hoped for a safe, speedy, med-free delivery. And then, in the wee hours of a Monday morning in late June, my water broke. A mere 5 hours later my baby was birthed into this world, healthy and perfect and beautiful. Everything went as well as I hoped. Better even, than I had let myself dream.
But then, we got to our post-partum recovery room and um, wait? I have a baby? I am responsible for this baby? I have no idea what to do.
My hormones were raging. I was exhausted from labor. I was so incredibly in love with my baby and so incredibly overwhelmed by what to do next. How often should I feed her? Is it supposed to hurt when she nurses? Everyone says it shouldn't, but um, she's sucking on my boob a lot. We need some sleep. I can't sleep. Baby is screaming while Daddy tries to swaddle her. It's our bedtime, but she's not interested in that right now.
I remember sitting in the hospital bed through the night, unable to sleep, holding this perfect little miracle in my arms. I would watch and watch and watch out the window to see the sun rise. When the sun would start to peek out, then I would know it was going to be ok.
And she did. For two full weeks she reassured, she comforted, she cleaned, she made meals, she took the baby between night feedings so I could sleep. She made me feel like a good mom. She made me feel like I could do it.
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