Six years ago, I found myself holding a small onesie adorned with an elephant, embroidered with “Mommy and Me,” tucked away in my purse. I had carefully modified it, cutting holes in the feet so that the medical probes monitoring my son’s heart rate and oxygen levels could remain visible and secure. Footie pajamas were simply not an option.
I had imagined that my baby would be home by Mother’s Day. It had been eight long weeks since his birth and his admission to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). But even now, we were still two weeks shy of his actual due date. My mental math had become a bit convoluted, moving both forwards and backwards.
As I sat in church, gripping my purse with the onesie, I watched a slideshow showcasing all the newborns from the year. They had reached out to me for a photo, but I couldn’t bring myself to share one that showed my son, Jack, tangled in tubes. I didn’t want the congregation’s sympathetic gasps to overshadow my need for strength. Instead, I craved a couple of cups of coffee and a retreat from the joyous laughter of new mothers celebrating their healthy babies. While everyone around me donned floral dresses and large hats, I was dressed in jeans and a sweater, prepared for the cold hospital we were heading to after the service.
Upon arriving at the children’s hospital parking garage, I took a moment to pause in the car. The lingering smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke reminded me of the weight of my expectations for this first Mother’s Day.
I had envisioned a different scenario: Jack’s smiling face projected on a screen a year from now, celebrating as a ten-month-old, nearly walking. I pictured my mother beside me, tissues in hand, tears of joy streaming down her face after everything we had endured to get here. Instead, reality had us heading to the NICU.
In the car, I reminded myself of the positives: Jack was safe and stable. Just a few days prior, he had undergone a tracheotomy that would help him breathe better. The doctors had reassured us that he would soon be coming home. I even had a new pacifier featuring a frog that I believed he would enjoy, as he could now breathe and suck without dropping his oxygen levels.
As we waved our visitor armbands like VIP passes, we made our way to Jack’s room. The silence was comforting; it represented safety. Alarms signified emergencies and chaos, but today, the ward was calm.
Having spent considerable time in the NICU, I had learned to read the monitors above each room. I noted the small number indicating the days spent in the NICU. At 60 days, we were on the higher end of the scale, but there were children who had been there much longer, some for six months or more. Their rooms often had a homely feel, adorned with blankets and even chairs from home. In that moment, I offered a silent prayer for all of us.
When we entered Jack’s room, he was alert, and I held back tears as the nurse helped me dress him in the onesie. He looked adorable, almost dapper, with his tracheotomy giving him the appearance of a little gentleman. I held him up for a photo, Lion King-style, before snuggling him close. He curled up against me, and I delicately flicked the wires from his foot to keep him comfortable. We spent hours together, and the nurse gifted me a laminated footprint transformed into a flower with the inscription, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy. Love, Jack.” It was his first piece of art, which I excitedly took home to display on the fridge.
As the ward prepared to close for rounds, we picked up our favorite pizza—the same kind we had shared after our wedding guests departed. We enjoyed it on the couch, paired with a bottle of inexpensive Merlot, while watching a few episodes of “The Office.”
Throughout the day, I viewed myself from a different perspective. I saw myself in church, unadorned with the usual sticker indicating I had a child in nursery. I envisioned myself in the car and finally on the couch with pizza on a gray, rainy day. The only time I truly felt present was while holding Jack—his head resting against my heart, and his tiny hand on my chest. This connection felt like a good omen; he had made me a mother, which is the true essence of this day—not the food or the photos, but the bond we shared.
In a few hours, we would return to the hospital, and I would hold Jack again until visiting hours concluded. I would cherish these moments of connection until he could come home for good.
Since that first Mother’s Day, we’ve celebrated many more, but none have resembled my initial expectations. We don’t partake in brunches or the traditional Sunday slideshow. Instead, we focus on what we do best—simply being together and savoring every moment.
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Summary: In this heartfelt reflection, Emma Thompson recounts her first Mother’s Day spent in the NICU with her son, Jack. She navigates her hopes and expectations while embracing the reality of their situation. Through moments of joy, connection, and gratitude, Emma highlights the true meaning of motherhood, which transcends traditional celebrations.