Janson

turned one week old last night. Upon being discharged from the hospital, I succumbed to trusting motherhood more so than the assembly line of NICU nurses answering questions and prodding our preemie with all-knowing medical devices and soothing “hacks.”

I am forming a routine; the body is resilient. My breasts awaken naturally at night, umbilically leaking every two and a half hours to his crib suckling. My husband and I tuck newborn diapers to avoid his dried cord. We shield furniture from midnight pee streams. We are trying five-hour “shifts” to get consistent sleep and are gloriously failing at every “newborn trenches” coping strategy.  

The morning walks are rejuvenating, and Janson sleeps soundly through them. Autumn shakes the leaves onto the sidewalk as a familiar crunch sound (careful, don’t wake the baby!) emanates scents of dirt and coziness. I remember jumping into leaf piles in elementary school…not too long ago, it seems. His existence resurfaces more memories than I could remember before postpartum.

I find myself incessantly thinking of writing again. It’s comical, after nine months of having nothing but time and 10-hour sleep energy, all it takes is seeing your husband gently bottle-feed and locking into a stare with your newborn to revitalize artistic burnout. I want to be better and more myself for them; I consider it yet another great awakening (totaling far too many for this month).

With this testament, my writings will create a mosaic of Janson’s first weeks - recording the little milestones, my husband and I’s marriage, the days we will wish for again all too soon.

As a 36-week preemie, Janson, in his first seven days, loves the left breast (specifically in the late evenings), screaming instead of sneezing, scrunching his legs up as if to make dressing him anatomically impossible, and tummy time with his “Bàba” ((爸爸) meaning “dad” in Chinese).

Moving so rapidly into life with Janson, a postpartum mother has no other obligation than to nurture and succumb to premature nostalgia.

I cry for when he is older, picturing him grabbing my collarbone and suckling to my humming “Silver Bells” in late September. He will soon not smell like the womb anymore, replaced with soft soap scents. His eyes will not cross and wander aimlessly, Janson will learn to focus one day.

I am exhausted but can’t help mourning this difficult season. We are in the “days gone by” when life picks up pace, our marriage becomes seasoned, and our actions recycle into advice for younger artists, parents, and lovers. Consequentially, more love creates in us a knack for pointing out the quickening of seasons– a nasty thing when we want to remain in the present forever.

Naturally looking back, I miss Ian (although we are always together). We have placed “the two of us” to rest in order to gain a family. I relive our dating years, the spontaneity and youth, how we first met blurring into reading vows between Christmas trees. Three months later, we were pregnant with what, at the time, seemed like an accident with grandiose consequences.

Our second night in the hospital with Janson, Ian and I curled up together, hesitantly admiring the soft breathing and whimpers of our sleeping son. We were terrified, in awe, and accepting our impending personal metamorphoses. Ian turns to me and says, “He was not an accident.”  

As I sit on our back deck with his bassinet, I notice chubbier cheeks – Janson is growing rapidly. His mindless surrender and trust in us are the most terrifying, lovely blessings. Have I googled Lexington-based nannies? Shamefully, yes. Did I once accidentally let his bobble head flop on my chest, triggering his startle reflex? Absolutely. Have I stared at our son with such unconditional love and awe? Every day.

In his first week, I have been overwhelmed with how purposeful our child is for such a time as this.