Blue As My Favorite Jeans

by Sandy Crellin

I was 32 when my first baby, Emily Mae, was born, twelve days early and as blue as my favorite pair of old jeans.

I'd been laboring with my contacts out, so my husband rushed to get my glasses so I could see her. The first glance I got of her was when, as she was lying on the warming bed, the nurse picked up her arm and dropped it. It bounced and lay still, and I thought, "Oh my God, she's dead." Luckily, right after that, she started breathing on her own and perked right up. After I'd gotten to hold her for a minute, they carted her off to the NICU, "Just to check her out."

So began the worst six days of my life. For six days Emily stayed in the NICU, while the doctors kept telling us that this might happen, or that might go wrong. None of which ever did. They seemed reluctant to admit that there was nothing wrong with her!

At five pounds, seven ounces, she looked like a giant lying next to babies who were two months early and barely cracked three pounds. The worst part of Emily being in NICU was that I felt that our time to bond, to really get into each others' skins and develop that special relationship, was slipping away with each extra day she spent away from me. I went to see her every day, and she knew who I was and responded to my voice, but she didn't seem really mine.

I'd known I wanted to breastfeed since before I was pregnant, but the NICU had her on IV nutrition for the first three days. I pumped at home and froze my milk for better days.

Finally, on the third day of her life, the nurse said, "The doctor says you can try to put her to breast today." (As if both were doubtful that it would work!) They got me a chair and a privacy screen, and I held her, being careful of the cords and wires still coming out of her tiny body, and showed her my breast. Much to my great joy, she took one look at it, made a face like, "Eureka! I've found it!" and latched on instantly, nursing for all she was worth. My poor, engorged boobies had way more than she needed, but I didn't care. We were finally doing what we should've been doing from the start!

I continued to nurse her every time I went to see her, but it bothered me that what should've been our private time together was interrupted by nurses, lactation consultants, and beeping monitors. I did the best I could to block it all out for her, singing and talking to her while she nursed, telling her what life would be like once she was free.

The doctors STILL couldn't find anything wrong with Emily so we brought her home from the hospital on her one-week birthday at 5 pounds, 3 ounces. They were concerned that she hadn't gained all of her weight back, but I was convinced that once she got home and could nurse from her mother all she wanted, she would start gaining weight.

For the first three weeks, she gained two ounces a day. But what was better was the bond I felt finally growing between my daughter and I. The feeling of "rightness" that I still get every time she latches on, usually holding my finger in her hand while she eats. She just turned five months old and now weighs fifteen pounds. She nurses whenever she wants. I have no problems if she wants to nurse until she's fourteen. She knew what was best for her at three days old, and she still does.

I know that breastfeeding saved our relationship and let us bond, despite the hospital's best attempts to keep us apart.