Bad Parent: Against Rooming In
I loved my new baby — but after a grueling labor, I just wanted to sleep.
by Kim Brooks
June 25, 2009
They say that after forty-eight hours without sleep the human brain begins to slow down. Think of a computer burdened by a hundred different open browsers. After seventy-two hours, psychosis can set in. I for one have first-hand knowledge of this process, not
because I was subjected to some covert military experiment, but simply because a year and a half ago, I gave birth to my son at a family birthing center that, like many facilities of its sort, adheres to a policy of "rooming in" for new mothers.
I first learned of this policy about a month before my due date, when my husband and I took a tour of the facility. The nurse showed us one of the post-delivery rooms, letting us marvel at just how un-hospital-like it seemed. And then, as we left the room,
she gestured briskly at the hospital's nursery: "But you and your babies hopefully won't be seeing much of that. Our expectation is that babies will be sleeping beside their moms. The nursery is only used for babies experiencing medical complications."
At the time, this sounded great. After waiting nine-plus months to meet the baby of my dreams, why would I possibly want to ship him off to a sterile, fluorescent-lit nursery where I wouldn't be able to stare into his eyes or caress his little hands or cuddle
him against my chest? Provided the guy was in good health, why would I not want him beside me every moment of those first few days? In other words, our hospital's rooming-in policy seemed like little more than common sense . . . until, that is, I gave birth.
I know that labor isn't easy for anyone, and having talked to plenty of other moms about their experiences, I feel pretty lucky — no serious complications, no c-section, no back-labor, no tearing or vacuum extractions or other horror scenarios. I went into
labor a little after midnight and thirty-two hours later: presto.
Around my sixtieth waking hour, the flowery wallpaper of my birthing center suite began to blur.
At the time of my first contraction, I was in good health and good spirits but not exactly well rested after three months of trying to sleep with what my midwife referred to as itty-bitty bladder syndrome. My first night of contractions was manageable, but
sleepless (was I really going to doze off knowing I was having my baby?). The second night was relatively painless thanks to my epidural, but still sleepless, as I experienced the not-uncommon side effect of shaking and shivering through most of the night.
So by the time I gave birth, I'd gone forty-eight hours without a wink.
Now, I know what you're thinking: enter husband/ partner/ impregnator. And indeed, my husband was a superhero during those first post-birth days and weeks. The problem we faced was that, despite all those much-craved burgers and bowls of guacamole I consumed
throughout my third trimester, our little guy was born absolutely famished and really psyched about this whole nursing thing — as in, wanting to do it constantly.
And in addition to being famished, he was quite the moody newborn. Apparently, his thirty-two-hour entry into the world hadn't tuckered him out one bit. Begin sleepless night numbers three and four.
Around my sixtieth waking hour, the flowery wallpaper and homey-style furniture of my birthing center suite began to blur into the interior of a garish funhouse. At some point during our last night in our nursery-less hospital, a nurse who I remember only
as having the face of an angel took pity on me, scooped up the baby and walked him around the halls, somehow keeping him quiet, while I slept. Maybe she rubbed whiskey on his gums. Maybe she gave him eight ounces of Similac. I didn't know and frankly, I didn't
care. I collapsed into a coma-like state for a couple of blessed hours before the sun rose and it was time for our happy family to get ready to go home.
Promoted by the midwife/ doula/ home-birth-movement community, as well as the World Health Organization, the practice of newborns rooming-in has been widely embraced. It's a pretty straightforward philosophy: newborns should be within arms-reach of their
mothers whenever possible. They argue that separation between mother and child during these first few days can disrupt bonding, impede nursing, and force hospitals to take extensive security and identification precautions for infants who are shuttled back
and forth between nursery and post-delivery rooms.
About the Author
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Kim Brooks has written for Glimmer Train, One Story, Epoch
and the Missouri Review. She also writes non-fiction for
The Crier. She lives in Chicago with her husband and son. |
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