When I gave birth to my first child, I delivered him after a two hour labour. They placed him on my chest as soon as he came out of me. I held onto him and looked at him in awe. Of what I had just done. Of who he was. That he was a boy. That he was mine. I helped clean him off and I was able to put him to my breast immediately and immediately he took to it.
They gave him to me for just a few seconds before taking him away again. He was unable to regulate is body temp, so he had to be monitored in an incubator until he could. This was our first brief meeting:
I am pretty sure that this was the foundation of my postpartum depression. When he was a newborn, I felt very indifferent towards him. Nursing was just a means to an end. I was going through the motions just trying to put the days in. Not to mention the 18 month old I had to still care for. In my postpartum mind I blamed Cuyler for the guilt I felt towards Cam.
I see it in the eyes of my neighbours – whose little boy was just diagnosed 3 months ago. They try so hard to get him to respond. To look at them. To connect. Sometimes they seem desperate.