More than Mommy-Guilt

Mother's Guilt - something that every mother knows far too well.  It's a shadow that haunts the days and nights of any mother's heart. 

I wasn't there to catch my child before they bumped their head.

I work and therefore can't be with my child during the day.

I'm tired, I snapped, I yelled.

Why are you crying?  Oh, you needed a diaper change.  I should have realized. 

That mommy-guilt comes in many forms, some big, some small.  Our children don't even pay attention to these details most of the time, but we let these tiny details plague us morning, noon, and night.

What I'm about to tell you is more than just a bump on the head, a diaper that needs changed and wasn't, or I lost my temper.  This is more than the day to day mommy guilt.  This is something that truly does haunt my memories and my heart.  There are no redos. 

When a child is born the medical team tries to get the baby to the mother as quickly as possible.  Even with Emma they did what they nicknamed a "gentle c-section."  Usually with c-sections the baby is separated from the mother until the mother is sewn back up and released to recovery.  My OB has a different approach.  Moments after the baby is delivered, they pull back the corner of my gown covering my shoulder, the place the baby on my chest and allow me to rest my head against hers, kiss her, cuddle her, breathe her in.  This immediate skin to skin helps the baby to start thriving, rooting, and bonding immediately.  Fewer babies have to be separated from the mother and spend time in the NICU/nursery.  Babies have been known to bring a mother's milk in faster, have fewer breathing problems, and generally just do better.  I will never ever forget that moment I got to share with my daughter.  I cried.  I smiled.  I asked "is she real?" and I meant every word of it. 

With Logan, this was very different.  The whole process was different.  The c-section was an emergency.  I was put under, and spent over an hour waking up in the recovery room.  Logan was so small, he was rushed to the NICU and hooked up to monitors, IVs, breathing machines.  There would be no skin to skin.  There would be no immediate bonding.  We were separated.  When I was finally able to see my first born, my son, we were separated still, this time by glass walls.  I knew those walls were his makeshift womb.  I knew those walls were meant to protect him, keep him warm, help him grow.  Essentially those walls were becoming his "mother" for the duration of his gestational growth.  They aloud me to reach in through two small holes and caress his tiny arms, feet, and head.  That's it.  There were no cuddles, no kisses, no breathing him in.  There was no rocking, no shushing.  It's maternal to want to rock your child.  It's maternal to want to hold them in the crook of your arm.  And my arms did ache for that feeling.  They will always ache...

I saw next to Logan's bed day and night.  When I was released from the hospital I went back daily.  But then I'd leave.  I'd only stay an hour or two.  Yes, I was recovering.  Yes, being out of bed, sitting, standing, pacing only caused me more pain and to recover more slowly.  Regardless, I should have been there.  I should have sat by his bed and never left.  I should have spent hours upon house next to him.  The 45 minute drive to the hospital shouldn't have stopped me.  The swollen ankles shouldn't have stopped me.  I was there when I could be there.  I needed to find time to rest and heal.  I heard these things and replayed them in my head over and over again.  That's not what bothers me most...

What bothers me the most, what haunts my dreams, and shadows my days is how little I said to him.  A mother's instinct is to cuddle her baby, to kiss her baby, to talk and sing to her baby.  I couldn't do the first two, and I feel that hindered the last two.  I would sit next to him, stare at him, will him to thrive and live.  I would touch his arm, wrap his tiny fingers around my one finger, but I'd lose my voice.  If anyone else was in the room I coudn't read to him.  I would get a lump in my throat, almost as if I was too nervous, embarrassed.  I should have read to him no matter what.  I should have sang to him without a care in the world.  He should have been my only priority.  My feelings, my insecurities should never have been an issue.  My confusion, frustration, fears should have been pushed down. 

I did sing to him....the day he died.  I did talk to him....the day he died.  I did hold him...for the first time...the day he died.  I tried to cuddle him and insticually started to rock him, but the nurse stopped by, saying it would interfere with his wires, his meds, the machines that were helping to ease his transition from life to death.  Only when my son was dying in my arms did I find the strength, courage, and inhibitions to let my voice, my tears, my songs cover him.  Only when he was taking his last breathes, his heart beating its last beats did I completely forget about myself, my husband, the nurses, the doctors, the hustle and bustle that surrounded us. 

With Emma I don't care who hears me.  I will sing her songs, make silly faces, discover silly noises, I will make an utter fool of myself it if means my baby girl is happy.

I know it was a different time with Logan.  I know the circumstances were extreme.  No one could expect me to react in any particular way.  Still...I could have been a better mother.  I should have talked to him more.  I should have...

This is more than mommy-guilt.  I don't know what you call it.  All I know is that I feel as though I failed him time and time again.

I love him with all my heart.  I love him still.  Words or no words.  Songs or no songs.  He had to of known I loved him...after all, he was the first to hear the beating of my heart from the inside.  I hope my love covers the faults and guilt I carry now.