This is not how I thought I’d meet you, my son.
In your plastic bubble, I don’t feel like a mom.
Can’t hold you, or feed you, or rock you to sleep.
These are not the memories I expected to keep.
So quiet and fragile, “It’s my fault,” I weep.
Each night we go home with an empty car seat.
“Can I hold him?” I ask. She says, “You may soon, just not today.”
“Maybe tomorrow will be the day.”
Even though I only get to behold you for now,
It fills my life with bliss just to see you in sight.
Here, I patiently await to give you a kiss.
I cradle my pump until my body is dry,
Filling the freezer with my supply.
“Liquid gold,” they say, to help fix you.
Drink up, my sweet boy, it’s all I can do.
Amongst the fear, the hell, and the anguish,
There is light, a magic, and hope that all will be well.
Late at night, amidst tubes, the beeps, and the wires,
We form a bond that could start fires.
After seven days of life is the day I finally get to hold you—
So little and fragile, my emotions running wild,
I dare not take a breath, just in case it might hurt you.
Nurses whisper and sing you a sweet lullaby,
They hold my hand, “It’ll be okay, mama,” as I cry.
They touch you tenderly, you’re theirs on loan,
Filling you with love until you’re ready to come home.
When we finally leave, it’s bittersweet.
We’ll never forget those we meet.
I’ll never forget those sterile walls, hands washed raw,
I’ll hear the beeps long after leaving those halls.
Joy and nerves as we drive towards home,
We’ll be sure to tell you about your start in life, my sonshine.
One in seven need the help of the NICU—
I just didn’t think it would be you.
