So, I'm sitting here at the NICU bedside of my perfect baby boy, listening to the soft sounds of him breathing. Every now and then, when his binkie slides out of his mouth or when he bears down to fart (a charming trait from his father, I'm sure), he starts to make little grunting noises that sound like an angry piglet. That's about as close as he gets to crying, usually. The nurses tell me he's a good natured baby. I, of course, believe this and every other word of praise they have to offer my beautiful boy.
My existence now consists mostly of interpreting the differences between soft breathing Rigby and angry piglet Rigby, trying to discern and prevent any more apneic spells before they start. I flatter myself that I'm starting to distinguish Rigby's breathing patterns pretty decently. Sometimes, even before the machines start beeping to warn me his oxygen is dipping, my heart is already in my throat because I've heard the change in his breathing.
As I've been sitting here, I've been thinking about how this must be what it is to be a mom. Knowing your kids well enough to be able to interpret things like this, and trying to head problems off at the pass so you can save your baby from even the slightest discomfort.
I've been thinking about the fact that now, I'm a mom. From now on, someone (firstly, Rigby and later on others) will only call me that - mom. Mommy. It's weird to think in my head "I'm a mom." The thought by itself feels strange. I have a mom. How can I BE mom? Without context, that thought flashes in my head like a neon sign in a foreign language, it seems so weird and out of place.
Which is silly, I guess. Of course I'm a mom. Who else would sit here hour upon hour playing "watch the monitor/listen to Rigby breathe?" (Not a care-free game, by the way. Takes years off the end of my life.) Who else would stare endlessly into his face, memorizing every feature? I remember James' sister Ginny explained that when she had Xela, it was like falling in love. It's kind of like that, I guess. Except that falling for James was a choice. I could have (though I never would have) walked away from that choice. There are no choices here. I know I'd walk through fire for this little man and not bat an eye. I'd do that for James, too, but you get my point. Something inside shifted after I had Rigby. My world will never be the same. And that's because I'm a mom.
Must run. Angry piglet is grunting. :)
