Baby in the Time of Covid-19, Part Deux: What is Normal?

Covid-19 rages on. In Pennsylvania, we’ve experienced the peak and social distancing has helped flatten the curve—at least that’s what is being reported today. Testing is still a joke, and there are rumors of a vaccine—but rumors are usually just that. Restrictions and overall paranoia are waning, with most people taking small steps back to normalcy regardless of the risk. It’s still a scary time. So much is still unknown and there is talk of a mutated resurgence this fall.

I am one month postpartum—I am drafting this now at 3 am; inspiration hit right after feeding my child.

After a relatively easy labor—well if you consider my water breaking three hours after making settlement on our first home and as we were reloading our cars to start the move, easy then yeah, it was a piece of cake—Wyatt Emilio Wooldridge was born at 6:50 am on April 18th, weighing in at 6 pounds 15 ounces, and measuring 21 inches long. When he came into this world with a delayed cry, the doctor urged my husband to announce his sex to me. “We have a son,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Told you,” I incoherently sobbed; I said from the beginning that I was carrying a boy, and as you know, I love being right. And when they placed him on my chest, all the worry, disappointment and stress that had been building over the last few weeks had washed away. I looked into his eyes and felt his breath on my skin, and none of it mattered. The little boy in my arms was the only thing that mattered. It was bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

But eventually, that euphoria wore off and was replaced with a new brand of worry. The worry of taking my baby out into a world, riddled with a virus that had claimed the lives of thousands. It was almost crippling, and if I wasn’t so consumed by unpacking our house and keeping Wyatt alive and happy, I probably would’ve returned to a complete fetal position and locked myself away from the world.

Recently, I saw this ad on TV.

Sitting in my living room, nursing my newborn son, the subject hit me right in the gut. I sobbed. I can’t blame the hormones, the commercial completely summed up everything I’ve been feeling for the last few weeks, with the assurance that I’m not alone and that Wyatt and I will come out the other side, stronger than before. It also made me reflect on the momentous thing that I just did. It made me realize that yeah, maybe I am a bit of a warrior.

Because Wyatt was my first child, I have absolutely nothing to compare my delivery experience to. So for all I knew, everything I experienced in the hospital over those 48-hours was completely normal. That when I called my doctor to say my water broke and very specific instructions were given to me about entering the hospital, was normal. That having my temperature taken by a hazmat-suited nurse before entering the Labor and Delivery ward, was normal. That the three-hour wait in the L&D triage for my rapid Covid test results—which should’ve been back in an hour—was normal. That I was required to wear a mask the entire time I was in the hospital, including when I delivered my son, was normal. That I spiked a fever during the last hour of my delivery—caused undoubtedly by the fabric mask I was wearing—and the minute Wyatt was born, the NICU staff rushed into my room to check the baby—I learned later that my fever could’ve been interpreted as a Covid symptom and Wyatt could’ve been taken from me for a few days—was normal. Ten hospital staff being in my delivery room immediately following Wyatt’s birth, was normal. That post-delivery, my husband and I were not allowed out of our room—something we weren’t explicitly told until my husband went out to the nurse’s station and was yelled at for doing so—was normal. That the nursing staff and other doctors lingering in the doorway of my room, not fully entering unless they had to, was normal.

But what I do know for sure, is that my postpartum experience is the furthest thing from normal.

The hospital stay kept us in a safe little bubble but Covid-19 would backhand-slap us the minute we left. My mind started whirling with just the basic necessity questions: my milk isn’t in yet so how will I get formula, we have no food in our (new) house so what will we eat, do we have enough diapers and wipes. All of which are not things a first time mom needs to worry about, but shortages were rampant across the entire country. Before leaving, we talked to the pediatrician about steps we needed to take in order to protect ourselves and our son. There wasn’t much she told us that we didn’t already know; continue with social distancing and the hygiene regiment we had already implemented, and adhere to a strict 2-week quarantine. 2-weeks where we could see no one and not leave our house.

“At what point are we allowed to have visitors?” I asked, partly knowing the answer.

She gave me a condescending smile—one I don’t really blame her for, but it irked me all the same—and said, “Well, in normal circumstances you really should be weary of seeing people until you have him vaccinated. RSV is a very real thing for newborns. This virus ISN’T normal. So, no visitors. At all. I’ve seen people do those drive-bys and people can always come up to your house’s windows.”

“Right, but when can we let people hold him,” my husband asked, knowing her suggestion wasn’t realistic long term.

“I can’t really say. Let’s see where we are at 2-months.”

2-months? 2-months and maybe?

This was my new, not-so-normal, normal. One that I couldn’t swallow. One that I knew would be even harder for my family to swallow—my parents were already chomping at the bit to come see him. Crest-fallen, we packed up our stuff and were discharged to figure out the rest of my burning questions.

Luckily, most of our worries were taken care of by the time we walked into our home. My mom—a retired pediatric nurse—made a few phone calls and was able to procure us enough formula until my milk came in (we’re actually still making our way through it). She also stocked our bathroom with cleaning supplies and feminine products that she knew I’d need post-birth (something you aren’t exactly pre-warned about). My family also coordinated our entire move and unpacked the basic, first night necessities including our bed. One of my best friends did a grocery run for us and meals were dropped off almost everyday of that first week. We are so lucky to have a huge support network and really can’t thank our friends and family enough for their generosity.

And the drive-bys started almost immediately. With Wyatt safely in my arms, we stood behind our storm door when people came to see him. Muffled by the glass, the common expression was, “He’s so cute and tiny! I just want to hug him!” Eventually, we progressed to meet-and-greets on our front lawn—keeping a safe, 6-feet of distance between us and those who stopped by. We’ve continued to do this even now, but every visit gets a little harder, emotionally. Like everyone else, I just want to hug my nieces and nephews. I want some direct, physical affection and allow Wyatt to have the same from someone other than myself and my husband. With every week that passes, I worry about the mental implications this is having on my son. Yes, I know he is still little but I’ve seen children who have extreme separation anxiety when their parents aren’t in sight—some of which has been caused by this quarantine. I worry that if this goes on much longer, Wyatt will never be normal when it comes to being around others.

Which is why my husband and I made a decision.

With the permission and strict guidelines from our pediatrician, we allowed my parents to hold Wyatt after a 2-week quarantine. Wearing masks, protective gloves, wrapped in a blanket—so there would be no skin-to-skin contact—and sitting in our front yard, my parents were finally able to hold their fifth grandchild.

I don’t know if this was the wrong decision. The unknowns are still astronomical. But I needed this. My parents needed this. And I don’t regret it.

At this point, I’m not sure what is normal and if we’ll ever get back there. Life before Covid-19 seems like such a distant memory, seeing huge crowds of people will always make me feel a bit squeamish, and my son will never know any different. But my advice to all first-time parents out there who are unsure of how to approach this “new normal” is to use your own judgement. Even if none of this was going on, you’d still be weary about the outside world when it comes to your newborn. Be cautious, but don’t stop living or trying to find joy in the little moments you so desperately need.

And take lots and lots of pictures. You may not want to remember Covid-19, but you’ll always want to remember when they’re this little.