Separating mom and baby is never easy

Originally published Feb. 10, 2017, in the Times Herald-Record of Middletown, N.Y.

Friends visited Sunday evening for the Super Bowl. We ordered pizza, made guacamole and watched the game from a distance.

Our friends left. We cleaned up the living room and went to bed. I woke up to feed Genevieve. Sarah woke up to feed Genevieve.

At 6 a.m., the alarm buzzed. Sarah awoke and sat on the bed, searching the darkness for minutes. The buzz from the walkie-talkie was merely white noise. Sarah sighed and walked to the bathroom.

She showered and dressed, toasted her English muffins and drank a can of seltzer water. Then Genevieve began crying. Sarah walked into the nursery and picked her up, slowly waking her while preparing a bottle.

The minutes seemed to quicken, as if the fates had finally caught up to us. No longer could I use an excuse for not eating well. And no longer could Sarah use an excuse for making an indent on the couch all day while the same shows rotated ad nauseum. “Today” became “Live With Kelly” became “Rachael” became “The Price is Right.” “The View” became “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” became “Ellen.” She set schedules to these shows. A nap as Drew Carey mumbled through Plinko. A nap as Ellen told us to be kind to one another.

But now, no more.

Sarah dressed Genevieve and fit her into the car seat. We walked to the car, secured Genevieve into her seat and drove the nine minutes across town to the house we’ve visited a couple times. The owner is really great. Her staff is really great. The other kids are really great. Our friends are bringing their daughter in a few weeks, and that’s really great. Everything is going to be really great.

We signed the papers as the staff member danced with Genevieve. We went over her feeding schedule, her napping schedule, her prune juice schedule. Tummy time is good. Music is necessary. Here’s a sleep sack. Here are blankets, diapers, a change of clothing and extras of everything you may possibly need.

It’s only eight hours.

Sarah cried. She hugged the owner. She hugged me. She hugged Evie. I drove her to the train station. She cried again. It’s only eight hours. But she’s an hour away.

“I’m just sad,” Sarah told me. Genevieve was part of her for nine months before meeting the rest of the world, and after that, still a part of her. Bound together by touch, smell, sound and taste. Part of the same blood, part of the same skin. Genevieve may look exactly like me — and don’t take my word, take the word of everybody who’s ever seen our daughter — but she and Sarah share a sacred bond that I can never and will never fully understand.

One year together, separated only by the air between them, and suddenly, one morning, they exist in two completely different planes. And that’s how it has to be for us. Sarah has to work in New York City. Genevieve has to stay close to home at a daycare center. It’s just reality.

We shouldn’t have to separate people from their origins, but we do because it’s just reality. We accept that. So we cry. We trust in the kindness and charity of past strangers. And we tell ourselves it will be great. Really great.