In our family, my first three siblings and I had the amazing and unique opportunity to watch our parents become "new" parents. My youngest sister, W, was adopted well after the rest of us had left the nest. And she was adopted at an age where my parents missed her infant years. But my Mom still pulled "night duty" with her. Even though she is now 18 and is well on her way to becoming just as mature and grown up as the rest of us (ahem), she was still a normal teenager. Whenever Mom was up in the middle of the night because of W's terrible "teenagery" things like cast parties, school dances and Youth Group overnights, I never heard her complain. She would always say, "I didn't get to be up with W in the middle of the night when she was a baby. So I have the privilege of doing it now."
The second thing that is changing my mind about night duty is this hospital stay... It's kind of like being new parents again. The first night in the ICU, he was taking 2 ounces of formula every two hours. The second night, in the step-down unit, a nurse would come in every 3 or 4 hours to take vitals, draw blood, give pain medicine or adjust his oxygen tube. and each time, D would cry out. It's not the sweet, high-pitched, desperate cry of a newborn. It's a pitiful wail, full of confusion, breath and "Mama Mama."
He says "Mama" when he's happy, babbles it when working his legs in his excersaucer, sings it out over the baby monitor while he wildly flaps in his crib. But he also weeps it as he is poked and tested and re-bandaged. Every time the hospital room door handle "kathunks" and a nurse walks in, I am up holding his hand, wiping his crocodile tears, calling him my Big Brave Boy. (M is with me and, of course, he does his Daddy Duty... like carrying D to get a chest x-ray at 5:00 every morning.)
Our first day in the step down unit, 24 hours after surgery, was a rough one as the effects of anesthesia had started to take a toll; and that first night was a busy one... nurses, vitals, alarms, heart monitors, pulse ox traces. It was in the wee small hours of the morning, D's pain meds were starting to wane and he had pulled out another IV... and he cried, "Mama. Mama." I opened my aching eyes, groaned my way off the vinyl couch, tried not to fall over my husband sleeping on the trundle bed, and stumbled over the cold floor to look over the side of the crib... "Mama's here, Baby."
and he smiled.
not an, "I just got out of surgery so I'll give you a tight lipped sign of recognition" smile.
a real smile.
a D smile.
The smile that has made pouting, old men in the grocery store stop what they are doing and lean down to make silly faces into the stroller. The smile that has made a crying woman at the pharmacy say, "You just made my day," while managing a wobbly smile. The smile that made the nurses on our floor practically kick me out of the room this morning to go have breakfast so they could finally get some cuddles from him while they showed him off at the nurses' station.
and that first smile was all for me.
because I'm the mama and I was on Night Duty.
