I will never forget the first time I held a newborn baby.  I was seventeen.  I had been babysitting for the Reiny family for about a year already.  Every Saturday night they would go out with friends and I would set myself down on their beige leather couch and flip on MTV.  I am not proud of it – but that is pretty much how I spent my Saturday nights.  The Reiny family had two adorable little girls, whom I had the pleasure of never having to do anything with, because they were always sleeping by the time I arrived at their eleventh floor apartment in Queens.  But every once in while I would peak into their darkened room to listen to them breathe.  Even as a teenager, I was neurotic.

About a year into my babysitting job, a baby was born to the Reiny family.  A few short weeks later, I came to babysit and to take my very first look at a newborn baby.  I carefully tiptoed into the room, with his mother at my side.  I peeked into his crib and slowly took him in.  He was wrinkly, like my blue cotton shirt before it was ironed.  He was tiny and even slightly misshapen, like a dried up berry.  His legs were scrawny and his eyes were crossed.  He had a tuft of hair sticking out of the top of his head, like one of those scary looking dolls you get for putting a quarter into a machine at the pizza store..  “Isn’t he sweet?”  The mother cooed.  I looked up to meet her gaze and gave her a weak nod.   “Yea, he is.”  I said, not meaning a word of it.  It didn’t matter.  I don’t think she was listening.

A short six years later, I was to have my second encounter with a newborn.  This time it would be my own.  I will never forget the way the labor room looked that Sunday afternoon after my prolonged delivery.  The flowered wall paper was streaked with blood, blood soaked blankets were strewn about,  multiple monitors were thrown around the room with twisted cords snaking around them, and my completely dazed husband stared blankly as if he had just witnessed a murder rather than a birth.  And there in the crook of my arm lay my new baby boy.  I was expecting wrinkles, not his soft flawless skin.  I thought he would be misshapen, but his body was perfectly proportioned.  I checked his eyes to see if they were crossed, but his watery silver-blue eyes focused directly on mine, as my own started to tear.  I ran my fingers over the soft bump of his nose and the slight line of his mouth and thought I was looking at the most exquisite work of art ever created.  “Isn’t he sweet?”  I cooed to no one at all.  I didn’t need an answer.  I knew.

Nobody had to tell me that my kids were perfect.  Even the asthmatic ones.  Even the ones who couldn’t eat peanut butter.  Even the ones who were completely bald until their second birthday.  Even the ones with perpetual mucus coming out of their nose.  Even the ones who insisted on wearing their shoes on the wrong feet, and their shirts on backwards.  Nobody had to tell me.  I knew.  I learned it on the day my son was born.  No matter what he looked like, no matter what he did, he would always be perfect to me.  But what I really didn’t expect was the other lesson I would learn a few weeks later.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  

On the day of my son’s birth, as he lay in the crook of my arm with my tender gaze upon him, a sudden fear seized me like a painful sting of a bee.  I had no idea what I was doing.  I didn’t know how to be a mother!  What if he needed to eat?  What if he needed a new diaper?  What if he couldn’t sleep?  What if he needed help with algebra?  Or geography?  I stunk at geography!  I looked hopelessly at my husband.  He was also looking lovingly into the baby’s eyes.  His face was so serene.  He looked like he had all the answers.  He had no idea what he was doing, I decided.  It was clearly all up to me.

Fortunately, at the hospital, the nurses pretty much took care of him, so I knew nothing bad would happen to him… at least for the first two days of his life.  There were classes in the hospital for new mothers.  I went to the bathing class and watched the nurse bathe an unsuspecting newborn from the top down.  She taught us how to clean the baby's eyes  and behind his ears.  I watched her professional hands make their way down this precious totally dependent body, and I became increasingly frightened.  This new life was completely dependent on me for his care.  I needed to be perfect.  What if I messed up?  What if I washed his feet before his arms?  What if I forgot to clean behind his ears?  By the time I was ready to go home, I was a mess.  

About four weeks after we had brought my son home, I noticed that he had a fever.  I had been sniffling all week from lack of sleep, and he had clearly caught my cold.  We took his temperature (which was another traumatic feat), and called the doctor.  He had 101 fever.  The doctor sounded concerned and told us to take him to the hospital.  The hospital?!  I had given him my cold, and now I’m putting him in the hospital?!  Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, my misgivings about my abilities as a mother were slowly coming to fruition.

We took him to the ER where they told us to wait in waiting room.  They needed to give the baby a spinal tap to rule out meningitis.  They also needed to run a slew of other tests, and it was best that we weren’t there.  I paced the floors in the waiting room trying to block out the guilt and fear that had coursed through my brain.  I kept thinking that not only had I infected my child, but I was being forced to abandon him and let complete strangers inflict untold pain on his tiny new body.  

They admitted him, and the waiting game began. He was put in isolation, so I was allowed to sleep in the room with him.  There was a rather uncomfortable pullout couch in the room, which became my bed for the next three days.  On the second night, a nurse let something slip out.  The baby tested positive for RSV.  What was that?  It had initials.  Something with initials couldn’t be good.  The expression on the nurse’s face indicated it was serious.  I contacted my pediatrician who explained that RSV was a respiratory virus.  The baby would need to be tented, and he would need to stay in the hospital until all the tests were complete, but RSV was nothing to seriously worry about.  I was so relieved.  Soon I could bring my baby home.

He was released the next day, and we got instructions on how to use the nebulizer.  He had purple marks on his tiny hand from the IV, but other than that, there were few signs of his incarceration in that oxygen tent.  He was almost five weeks old.

We got home and I sunk into my new beige rocking chair, put him on my lap, and for the first time in three days, I started to cry.  I had been so scared.  I had felt so guilty.  Mercifully, my husband came over to let me vent.  What did I do to my baby?  I gave him RSV!  I looked over to my precious son to check if he was breathing properly. He turned his face toward mine in response.  His face was so tiny.  His nose started to crease in the corners.   His eyes were focusing so hard, they were almost magnetic.  He was trying to tell me something.  He must have sensed the tension.  He must have sensed my insecurity, because as he looked up to meet my gaze, for the very first time in his short life… he smiled.

His smile was so innocent, gentle, and accepting.  To tell you the truth, it meant as much to me as the day of his birth.  That smile was the completion of my course in motherhood.  There were really only two principles to know.  One you learn on the day of the birth - no matter what he did, he was perfect to you.  The second you learn with his first smile - no matter what you did, you were perfect to him.     

Cheryl Levi grew up in New York, where she lived for thirty years.  She studied philosophy, and eventually earned an MA in Medieval Jewish Philosophy.   She then moved to Israel, where she currently resides with her husband and four children. Cheryl has taught philosophy in various high school and post high school programs.  She has also worked in curriculum development for a university program.  Currently, when she isn’t cooking egg-free, peanut-free, milk-free food, wiping running noses, or dancing with Elmo, she is working on a memoir about the nature of religious faith in light of suffering.