perfection

Our baby is pretty great. We think he's adorable and sweet, strong and wonderful. But he's no better and no worse than anyone else's baby. In the grand scheme of things, he's just a baby. Because he is ours, we are in awe, impressed, and completely in love, and we are thankful that he is healthy so far, but he's one out of half a million premature babies born in the United States each year, and all of those parents think they have the best baby in the world. They are right. They do have the best baby in the world. So do we. They, because their baby is theirs, and we because our baby is ours. This baby, who is finally asleep in the sling after fussing for an hour, has made our lives richer, sleepier, busier, and more interesting. But he's not perfect. Neither are we walking around in a faerietale cloud of domestic bliss.

This experience is complicated and frustrating. We are facing financial, personal, relationship, and employment challenges and changes. I am home all day, sometimes unable to leave the couch for more than a minute. I'm ungroomed and tired, and I am running out of movies to watch. Today, he barfed twice directly down my cleavage. (Most boys only get away with that once.) He also peed on me, he's not interested in napping unless it's on me, and he generally does not want to be put down. So I type with one hand and periodically rest my cheek on his soft head and hug his swaddled baby body. It's no different from any other mother's situation, and it's really nothing to complain about.

It's also natural and lovely. I am finding out a lot about myself, things like "Wow, I can do this," and "I am more patient than I ever imagined I could be." I try to accept whatever is happening because it can't be helped. He's a baby; he's reacting purely in stimulus-response mode. If I want to be able to cope with it, I have to remember that.

We will do our best to bring up a child who has an even-keeled view of himself and the world, and we will do our best not to overprotect him or give him a complex about being a "miracle," or a complex about having been a "preemie." I don't really think of him as a preemie, anyway. He's Finn. He's not really a three-monther, and he's not really a newborn. He's who he is, and it's just fine. As with all things, we'll see what happens.

Being in the NICU for two and a half months gave me perspective. We are not alone, and we are not special. Finn is not perfect, and perfection should neither be expected nor imposed. He's a baby; he's our baby, and we love him.

Even when he does this: