My coworker came in after having been out for a week on paternity leave. He was a nice guy, but one who had taken a job with a scope of responsibility that was much bigger, broader, and nastier than what had been presented to him in the interview. Because of this, I would only know him for five months, but our conversation that morning would remain with me to this very day.
“Is it normal,” he asked, “to not feel any connection with your baby?”
Having no children of my own at the time, I told him that I really wasn’t qualified to answer the question. He seemed genuinely worried, and I felt bad for him. From the little that I knew of him, based mainly on his hushed, frustrated telephone conversations with his wife, I would have guessed that he agreed to have a child just to keep the peace. He seemed to be the type of husband who, by default, always agreed to everything. The job was not a good fit for him, and he soon left the company after several weeks of making a go of it.
I recalled this conversation shortly after we learned that we were going to be parents. After doing some research, since I was now very much invested in knowing the answer to my coworker’s question, I found that it’s actually not that uncommon for one or both parents to feel some sort of disconnect with the baby at first. Sometimes a bond happens right away, and sometimes it takes a while – but the parenting instinct does kick in eventually, so it’s not anything to add to the worry pile.
With this in mind, I was fully prepared for either outcome when the Sprout was born. For sure, both my wife and I were more than ready to get past the pregnancy part and start the parenting phase, but I really feel that both of us regarded the moment of birth as a big step into The Great Unknown.
The C-section took all of 20 minutes or so, after hours and hours of being in the hospital – we checked in on Monday night, labor was induced Tuesday morning, we waited all day on Tuesday until, finally, the doctor made the decision to deliver via C-section at 11pm. It would still be another hour or so before everything, and everyone, was prepped and ready to go. By the time we headed to the operating room, midnight had passed and we had entered our third day of being in the hospital.
I stayed on one side of the curtain and sat on a stool, with my wife on the table in front of me and the anesthesiologist beside me. I won’t lie – it was a scary, scary scene, made better only by the fact that we had complete faith and trust in the doctor. In all, it only took 20 minutes from beginning to end. When our baby was delivered, the anesthesiologist pressed me to pop my head up to take a look. After some prodding, I peeked over the curtain and, across the room, I saw our daughter laying on a heating pad, her eyes open wide, her head sweeping the room from side to side, the grayness of her skin slowly being taken over by pink as her first intake of air made its way through her body. It felt great to see her for the first time, but it was not The Moment. She was too far away, a small form in a large and empty space. I may have made a remark to my wife that the baby was fine, and looked healthy and strong.
Then, the nurses bundled the Sprout up in a stock hospital blanket, put a little hat on her, and carried her around the curtain to present her to my wife for the first time. My wife, upon seeing the Sprout for the first time ever, burst into tears, told her that she loved her, and kissed her on the temple. It was, at that moment, an instant bond for both of us.
This was The Moment, and is the best thing that I have ever witnessed in my lifetime. It is the gem that I keep in my heart, the one that I call on when the storm clouds gather and the night is dark. It comforts me and assures me that, no matter what else happens in this world, there will always be promise and hope and good that I can reach out and touch with my own hands.
