In the past few weeks, I've visited three different hospital rooms for the world's best reason: meeting a new baby.
My husband's best friend welcomed darling twins, a friend had her second sweet little boy and my sister became a mom for the very first time to my absolutely beautiful-in-every-way niece. While the anticipation in the drive-overs, elevator ride-ups and down-the-hallway scurries was delicious, nothing compared to the moment when that hospital door opened and the world changed forever.
There is something beautifully intimate about a hospital room holding new life. Somehow, amid the medical tangle of clinical smells and beeping machines and bustling staff, there is a cocoon for each new family. After the chaotic and overwhelming adventure that is childbirth, that fatigued, awed retreat to a private space is an immeasurable gift.
Admittedly, I am a bit baby-obsessed, especially when it involves loved ones. Jeff has had to, on more than one occasion, pointedly tell me to stay put until a more appropriate time for a visit. I just can't help myself. There is such pure joy in the welcoming of a new life - and even more joy in witnessing the transformation of a child's parents and family.
It is amazing to me that one day, there is a child to be born and then the next, there is this brand new life that wasn't there before. When a baby is born, so are parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. Perspectives, sleep habits, relationships, beliefs, lifestyles change. The world grows in love.
As a new mom, and then new mom of two, sitting in that hospital bed, I was grateful for the fleeting moments where the world was as tiny as I could make it. For a day or two, I could pretend that there was nothing beyond that threshold and attempt to process the new life the new life in my arms had brought to us. Each visit amplified our happiness, as we watched our family and friends meet our newest love. And when the lights dimmed for the night and it was just our little family again, we got to revel in the purity of this new beginning.
Visiting "new life" rooms is a fantastic treat, as I get to witness all of the excitement without facing any of the work. I love hearing Mom tell her birth story, while Dad (always busy with his computer, sharing pictures, working on correspondence, taking care of life) chimes in with extra details. I love proud Grandma on the couch who graciously lets me hold the baby for a little bit, even though it is her turn to rock. I love the wonder on each parent's face, the fatigued scruffiness of Dad and the fresh-scrubbed I-put-on-makeup-to-feel-better-holy-cow-I-made-this-life shine in Mom's eyes. I love the sounds and smells and movements of a newborn, the teeny-tiny diapers and hospital-issued swaddle blankets. I love the quiet, even when it's not quiet, of the room and the seemingly impossible view out the window (because how can the world go on when life is changing so immensely?)
As doctor-phobic as they come, I know that hospital rooms are not romantic. We were more than ready to go home on our release days, as have been all of our friends and family. And yet, in the middle of real life, there are tugs of homesickness for those early days in a small room that baby first called home.
We drive by our hospital often in our daily comings and goings and Claire rarely misses the chance to point out where she and Jenna and her baby cousin were born. I nod and we wave to the hospital (we say hi to almost everything in town). Inevitably, I glance at those windows and wonder about the lives that are changing within. A hospital is a keeper of many stories, but I'm drawn irresistibly to the stories of births - of babies, of parents, of families, of new beginnings.
Drawn so much that we just may have to find our way back to one of those rooms ourselves someday...
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