Congratulations. You’ve been chosen to give birth during a worldwide unprecedented pandemic outbreak. But not as a punishment. As a token of your strength. As a token of your child’s strength. No more physical than mental.
“You are not being tested of your strength, you are showcasing it.”
Every pregnant mom right now and moms that just gave birth are in much need of a pep talk – an uplifting spirit – a motivational speech (OK and maybe a therapist, life coach, personal pediatrician, doctor on call, the best best friends ever, and a miracle worker.) I’ll try my best to provide the first necessities mentioned. The latter – well, I wish you all the best.
“Your baby is strong, steadfast and sacred – and so are you.”
Let’s go girls! cue Shania Twain lyric
“Find comfort in knowing that we’re in this together. You are not alone.”
First and foremost, you’ve got this. Really, you do. No ifs ands or buts. You’ve got this. This is part of your destiny and this is part of your child’s destiny. Your baby is strong, steadfast and sacred – and so are you.
You wouldn’t be put in this position if you weren’t capable. You are not being tested of your strength, you are showcasing it. Mom strength is real. And giving birth during COVID-19 mom strength is even more real. I wish you didn’t have to be stronger than moms already have to be, but you do.
“We are a very special, select group of women. May we rise to this life milestone together.”
No women before us have been through something like this, not even our own moms (who we basically think for the most part hung the moon). So no one gets it but us.
“You’ve been chosen to give birth during a worldwide unprecedented pandemic outbreak. But not as a punishment. As a token of your strength. As a token of your child’s strength.”
No one gets what it’s like to walk into the hospital to give birth and instantly be greeted by a pop-up stand to test you for COVID-19 symptoms to even be allowed in, with a cop right next to the nurse overseeing that the situation is going smoothly. To then be allowed access to go check-in to be told you can only have one person with you (as if I haven’t been mentally preparing for that) and that one person has to be the exact same person your whole stay – no rotating your one person – so choose wisely (as they clearly see my husband is standing right next to me and I have to give approval that I choose my constant person to be him by my side). All of these protocols before I even get to tell them I think I’m in labor. And a cop watching my every move making sure we don’t cause a scene over policies they’re reciting me.
No one knows what it’s like to walk by an empty waiting room that’s blocked off on the way back to l&d triage where I vividly remember my family once standing with pure excitement when I was giving birth to my first child. To then continue walking further down the hallways to just see more empty rooms because no one is going in for false labor symptoms right now – no one wants to be anywhere near a hospital if they don’t have to be. Yet I’m there. Seeing nurses wear masks and gloves saying, “I’m sorry I’m a little slower right now with all of this on, it’s hard to get used to. I can’t wait for all of this to be over.”
No one knows what it’s like to feel the emptiness of not having your family there to celebrate your newest addition, to have FaceTime instead – there’s no making up for that moment. The kind of eeriness to be in your recovery room that if all is going well with mom and baby, having 6 hours without even so much as seeing a nurse come in because they don’t want to expose us to any more germs than we’re already being exposed to by being there in the first place.
No one knows what it’s like to leave the hospital with their husband and brand new baby going, “Wow. We did it.” and thinking to yourself, what beautiful wild weird whirlwind just happened?
No one knows what it’s like to then go home and still not have your support system around – to juggle bonding with your newborn, still show your oldest the same amount of love and attention, to heal your body from giving birth – oh, and do a freaking phenomenal job at all of those three things.
No one knows but us.
“Cara, my beautiful baby girl, you knew you would move mountains one day and wanted to join our world during a time you knew you could conquer. Thanks for having that faith in me too. We did it together.”
And while none of us deserve to be experiencing this, especially our little loves, find comfort in knowing that we’re in this together. You are not alone. No one else can get it. But we do.
You know what else no one gets? The extra level of of close-knit family bonding. The level of love in the four walls when it’s just you, your husband, and baby (ies). The strength between you and your husband growing even more because you’re each other’s only doctor, family member, nurse, and best friend on deck.
This is part of our story. We are a very special, select group of women. May we rise to this life milestone together.
I’m here for you, mama. I’ve got this. And so do you.
ps- Cara, my beautiful baby girl, please know when you don’t see the professional newborn photography sessions your sister got and you didn’t, that it’s not second child syndrome – I had them all planned out – it’s you being one strong fabulous girl who knew you would move mountains one day and wanted to join our world during a time you knew you could conquer. Thanks for having that faith in me too. We did it together.
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