When I first started studying midwifery, I wasn’t in it for the newborns. I came to midwifery from a desire to better support abortion, pregnancy loss, and other vulnerable pregnancies. I loved caring for parents, pregnant people, growing families, and helping them navigate challenges. I came to it from the perspective of an activist, who deeply cared about hands-on work. Newborns were sort of a nice thing that happened in some pregnancies, but they weren’t my reason for being a midwife. Other midwives really love babies. I really loved caring for their parents.
Newborns have grown on me. They’re in my care (on the outside) for a much shorter time than their parents are, but over time I have developed rituals and attempts at connecting with them while they’re still in utero. I introduce myself out loud when I’m palpating their little bodies through their parents’ bellies, and talk to them directly even when they’re in the womb. I welcome them into the world out loud, by name, and ask for their permission and help when offering measurements and newborn exams. By treating them as whole, conscious humans from the beginning, I have learned to connect with them more deeply and quickly than previously; which has helped me love caring for them.
Once on the outside, I’ve been able to tune into their own attempts at connection with me. While their primary relationships will always be with their parents, I have noticed newborns that I actively engaged with in utero and in the immediate postpartum seem to recognize me and try to communicate with me in their early weeks of life. I especially love the 4-week and 6-week visits when they’re more aware of the world and intentional in movements, clearly making eye contact, smiling, and exhibiting great calm when I work with their bodies.
I’m writing this post in the winter of 2020, when many aspects of healthcare, including my regulated midwifery care, have changed quite a bit in the face of the COVID-19 pandemic. One of the more visibly obvious changes to care is the use of personal protective equipment (PPE) on my part at all interactions, including a mask and face shield (as well as scrubs and hair covering). Much can be said for the strangeness of this care with pregnant parents and families, who are going their entire course of care without ever seeing my whole face. I’ve learned to adapt my body language and touch to communicate differently and facilitate bonding and trust when I don’t look as approachable as I once did. While I could speak volumes of PPE and interacting with pregnant clients, I’ve lately been noticing most how it changes my interactions with their babies.
PPE has significantly impacted by ability to connect with newborns. They can’t tell where my voice is coming from when my mask covers my mouth. Glare and reflection off my face shield makes them look away, and already blurry vision through a face shield makes it hard for them to make eye contact with me. When I try to bring my face closer to them to facilitate communication I often awkwardly bonk them with my shield.
Instead, these days I’m finding our primary communication is through touch. They can’t focus on my face easily, but I try to remind myself what they know best about me is my hands. These hands felt them through their parents’ belly, these hands often helped them come into the world, and felt their little bodies for a newborn exam. These hands should always be gentle and confident in their handling, to show them they can trust me and I can be a safe place for them. It’s important to model gentleness with care providers from our earliest interactions.
I look forward to the days I can shed layers of PPE and smile back at newborns . Until then, I am appreciating the new challenges of practice and reminding me of touch as a primary form of communication, especially with our newest people.