Your birth

You are next to me.  As I tap keys you move your legs all around looking at shells on the walls.  We go to yoga on Thursdays.  An activity I can only afford for this month.  I am on a mat and you are on a blanket.  You are happy and suck your thumb to sleep.  I am told that you are so big, so long, so chill.  All things that would make any mother smile.

There were new mothers last week.  There was a baby who was smaller than you were at six weeks.  They were asked if they had natural births or c-sections.  There was one who answered, C.  Just like me.  I watched her.  Her face in such delight, didn’t seem to mind the weight she had gained or her scar across her bikini line.  But that is just me.  I did not speak to her, I was not in the room when she gave birth and the days after in the hospital.  I was not in her home when she had to ask people to help her because things might have been difficult for her to do.

I am not the best of planners.  You were supposed to be born at home, in a bathtub in the kitchen.  But the apt was messy, the living room was cluttered and people from Florida kept on calling your abuela to see how things were going.  Her cell phone ring was loud, she was loud and I didn’t want her to think I was a brat by asking her not to answer her phone.  You were ready to leave my body but you needed to take your own time.  My back went into spasms every time there was a contraction.  I was too scared for you to come out in a home that was suppose to be peaceful.

By day two and a half I needed drugs.  I am sorry.  I wanted to feel your birth.  I wanted to push and I wanted to scream.  I couldn’t take the pain anymore.  I was too tired.  I wouldn’t of had the energy.  I didn’t have a bag prepared.  I packed the weirdest things.  I breathed deep all the way to the hospital.  They took me in, they were nice, it kind of felt like a movie.  This was before the drugs and even after the drugs.

I no longer felt the pain.  A machine let me know your heartbeat rate and when I had contractions.  You didn’t like the drugs.  I knew you wouldn’t.  A doctor busted in the room, this is when it felt like it was a movie.  Her words were urgent, telling us you might die.  She talked in a medical language I did not understand.  You’re papi translated for me.  I wanted you to be born into this world stress-free.  More drugs and more of your unhappiness led to a c-section.  Your papi held my hand the whole time.  My body was numb from below my breasts and down.  The anesthesiologist asked me what music I wanted.  I told him Miles Davis, I got bad smooth jazz instead.

The doctor told me that I should focus all my energy in seeing you born with strong lungs.  She was scared that you might be born limp.  They put all my organs out of my body to make space for you.  You were born screaming.  It was a bloody mess.  They draped me so I would not see it.  Your papi video taped it.  One day we will watch your birth together.

You were filled with poop and they brought you over to me so I could look at you.  Big boy, how did you fit inside me?  They checked you and poked at you and said you were having trouble breathing.  You were fine until they poked at you.  They took you to Newborn Intensive Care Unit.  Papi went with you.  They took me to another room and gave me more drugs.

My doula sat with me.  I felt bad for keeping her there.  In between nodding out from the drugs I asked her questions wanting to make her feel welcomed.  It didn’t feel like I just gave birth.  You were far away on another floor.  Thank God your papi was with you.  He held you and sang.  He touched your nose and you smiled.  You were ok.

Your new home was in a hospital room with florescent lights and nurses who came in and out of our room at all hours of the day and night.  I held you in my arms and I would nod off sometimes while feeding you.  I didn’t understand how they thought it was safe to give me so much drugs.  I was scared that I would drop you on the hard floor.  I was silent.  I never expressed discontent.  I didn’t want to feel worse.  I wanted to feel grateful.  You were not born limp without breathe.

I was huge.  My body swollen.  My pants didn’t fit.  I felt like a whale out of water.  They didn’t tell me all the side effects of the drugs.  I still don’t like hospitals.  We came home three days later.  Our apartment was not a mess.  My mami cleaned it and sprayed lots of Febreeze.  I told her the smell was hard for me because of my allergies.  I didn’t worry about these things before I moved to California.  You were home and we slept days and nights.  I wanted to do everything myself.  I couldn’t.  Thank God your abuela was around.  I turned her ring volume lower so it wouldn’t bother me.

You are still next to me.  Now you are asleep.  Your chest goes up and down.  I hardly check you in the middle of the night to see if you are still breathing.  You spend half the night in your baby hammock and the other half in my arms.  You suck your thumb and scratch your face at night.  I feed you, I burp you, I kiss you on the forehead.  Sometimes you have nightmares.  You whimper, you hardly ever cry.  You are easy.  Alhamdullilah.