Last night was the first night transitioning Emma to her nursery. Talk about anxiety...
Emma seemed un-phased. I, on the other hand, needed a glass of wine after putting her to bed.
*cue tears*
I will never be "ready." I've discovered that parenting involves "growing up" as much, if not more, than the child does.
As I sat with my {very} full glass of wine next to Ryan, my nerves raw, it hit me like a ton of bricks: I am not afraid for Emma, I'm afraid for me. Emma will sleep no differently in the nursery than she did in our room. She is still swaddled the same and sleeps in the same position in her rock-n-play. The only thing different is that I can no longer just roll over and peek in on her. She is now on the opposite side of the house rather than next to my side.
This separation, although minute, feels similar to the separation I felt when I had to leave Logan, alone, in the NICU. I was not there when his heart stopped the first time....or the second. I wonder in secret (sometimes even from myself), had I been by his side would it have happened?! And if it still would have happened (which it would have), was he scared? Hurt? Lonely? Would my presence have been comforting? Was he missing me and needing that but I wasn't there? I've accepted (not willingly) that I can't control what happens with Emma's destiny. I can't control the life nor death of the ones I love. But I am fearful most of "not being there" in any and every way I can. I am fearful that I will sleep through her desperate cries for my milk or cuddles. I'm afraid when I wake up she'll have tear stained cheeks out of fear and loneliness. I fear most (and God, please, forbid) * the truth* that I will have missed a need, a cry, anything...and that she won't be there, alive, when I go to her.
There. I said it. I said the aweful fear that plagues me.
I'm sorry, dear mothers, who have felt the gripping pain that only comes from the death of your child. I cannot tell you the fear goes away. I cannot paint endless pictures of carefree rainbows. Although my heart is full of a joy I thought could never reside there again, the fear hides in the shadows, waiting to smother that joy with it's bare hands. The fear and the shadows cannot and will not win...but they are still there. Not everyday nor every moment seems so anxious and raw. Not every second feels fearful. In fact, the fear has become a silent on-looker...most days. But when the fear strikes, it's grip is near suffocating.
Some times all I can do is breathe.
It's night two. Night one only lasted 4 hours. After her first stirring sounds came across the monitor, I reasoned with myself that she would surely wake soon to eat. She ended up cuddle next to me in our bed....*weak* I've already rocked her to sleep twice tonight (my favorite part). I'm determined to be braver tonight. I'll wait for her to actually wake before bringing her to our bed. You're supposed to wean the child....instead I have to wean myself.
Logan knows I wanted to be there, right? He knows my heart never left his side??? Questions I'll ask myself until the day I die.
Emma seemed un-phased. I, on the other hand, needed a glass of wine after putting her to bed.
*cue tears*
I will never be "ready." I've discovered that parenting involves "growing up" as much, if not more, than the child does.
As I sat with my {very} full glass of wine next to Ryan, my nerves raw, it hit me like a ton of bricks: I am not afraid for Emma, I'm afraid for me. Emma will sleep no differently in the nursery than she did in our room. She is still swaddled the same and sleeps in the same position in her rock-n-play. The only thing different is that I can no longer just roll over and peek in on her. She is now on the opposite side of the house rather than next to my side.
This separation, although minute, feels similar to the separation I felt when I had to leave Logan, alone, in the NICU. I was not there when his heart stopped the first time....or the second. I wonder in secret (sometimes even from myself), had I been by his side would it have happened?! And if it still would have happened (which it would have), was he scared? Hurt? Lonely? Would my presence have been comforting? Was he missing me and needing that but I wasn't there? I've accepted (not willingly) that I can't control what happens with Emma's destiny. I can't control the life nor death of the ones I love. But I am fearful most of "not being there" in any and every way I can. I am fearful that I will sleep through her desperate cries for my milk or cuddles. I'm afraid when I wake up she'll have tear stained cheeks out of fear and loneliness. I fear most (and God, please, forbid) * the truth* that I will have missed a need, a cry, anything...and that she won't be there, alive, when I go to her.
There. I said it. I said the aweful fear that plagues me.
I'm sorry, dear mothers, who have felt the gripping pain that only comes from the death of your child. I cannot tell you the fear goes away. I cannot paint endless pictures of carefree rainbows. Although my heart is full of a joy I thought could never reside there again, the fear hides in the shadows, waiting to smother that joy with it's bare hands. The fear and the shadows cannot and will not win...but they are still there. Not everyday nor every moment seems so anxious and raw. Not every second feels fearful. In fact, the fear has become a silent on-looker...most days. But when the fear strikes, it's grip is near suffocating.
Some times all I can do is breathe.
It's night two. Night one only lasted 4 hours. After her first stirring sounds came across the monitor, I reasoned with myself that she would surely wake soon to eat. She ended up cuddle next to me in our bed....*weak* I've already rocked her to sleep twice tonight (my favorite part). I'm determined to be braver tonight. I'll wait for her to actually wake before bringing her to our bed. You're supposed to wean the child....instead I have to wean myself.
Logan knows I wanted to be there, right? He knows my heart never left his side??? Questions I'll ask myself until the day I die.
He knows mama, he knows.
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