Reason I hid my baby
I hid my boy away, until a class of 5-year-olds helped me to see things differently
Hannah Pitt, 36, Huddersfield
As I watched the midwife checking the ultrasound screen, I breathed a sigh of relief.
She had a beaming smile on her face.
‘Baby is happy and healthy!’ she said to me.
It was February 2016, and me and my partner Daniel, then 32, were over the moon that I was expecting a baby.
But we were trying not to get too excited. Two years earlier, we’d lost our first baby at just 14 weeks.
It was devastating, but we’d picked ourselves up, carried on as best we could.
But it was hard not to worry that history might repeat itself.
Now, here we were at our 12-week scan, with a nurse telling us everything was OK.
The rest of the pregnancy was smooth sailing and I went into labour in October 2016.
‘This is it,’ I smiled to Daniel, squeezing his hand.
After five hours in labour, I gave birth to our baby boy Teddy. But, as a doctor lifted Teddy off the bed and onto my chest, I couldn’t hear a sound. He wasn’t crying. ‘Is he OK?’ I asked, panicked. But no-one answered. Within seconds, Teddy was whisked away by hospital staff, Daniel rushing out after him. I’d barely caught a glimpse. ‘What’s wrong… w what’s happening?’ I cried as the n nurses tried to reassure me. It was half an hour before Daniel returned. As he sat down on the bed, he burst into tears. ‘He’s alive,’ he said to me. ‘But they’re doing tests. They think something might be wrong.’ I barely heard him. ‘As long as he’s alive,’ I said firmly. Then a midwife brought a picture of our
Teddy for me. But what I saw left me in shock.
My son was so battered and bruised, his skin was almost purple. His head was misshapen, his hands and feet fused together.
‘Is that my baby?’ I gasped.
A consultant gently told us they thought our son had a disability known as Apert syndrome.
It’s a genetic disorder that makes the skull bones prematurely fuse together – so Teddy’s head wouldn’t grow properly.
Symptoms include a sunken face, widened eye sockets and fused fingers and toes.
I barely spoke, just nodded along blankly. It didn’t feel real.
And, as I went up to see Teddy in his incubator later that evening, I cried and cried.
Not for myself, but for my little boy – he didn’t deserve this.
I ached as I thought about what his life was going to be like. Would he be bullied for his appearance as he grew older? Would he have friends?
When Teddy was allowed home a week later, Daniel and I were still struggling to come to terms with the diagnosis.
‘Come on, let’s go out for a walk and clear our heads,’
Daniel said to me. Putting Teddy in the pram, I placed a hat over his head.
I told myself it was so he didn’t get cold – but, deep down, I knew the real reason.
I didn’t want people peering in the pram, seeing Teddy.
I didn’t want to have to watch their faces turn from a big smile to a concerned frown.
As we strolled through the park, I couldn’t relax.
‘People are going to make cruel comments because he doesn’t look like other babies,’ I wept to Daniel later that night.
In my mind, I was convinced everyone who saw Teddy would ask what was wrong with him.
And I just wasn’t ready for t that q question. To me, my little boy was perfect. But, as our life became a constant stream of hospital visits, I started to hide Teddy away more and more.
At home with Daniel and me, he’d be protected from judgemental glances.
And I’d be protected from questions I didn’t yet feel strong enough to answer.
But there was one thing I was struggling to put off – I’d promised to take Teddy into the primary school where I taught.
My colleagues texted me often, telling me how excited the children were about seeing him.
I couldn’t avoid it any longer.
So, when Teddy was 3 weeks, I carried him into the classroom full of 5-year-old kids.
As I stood there with baby Teddy, I waited for the cruel comments – but none came.
One little boy, who’d never seen a newborn before, thought that’s what all babies were like.
‘When will his hands separate, Miss?’ he asked me innocently.
That was the moment I knew that I didn’t need to hide Teddy away any more.
These children weren’t being horrible or unkind, they were just curious. And my colleagues were the same.
‘He’s so cute!’ a fellow teacher told me. ‘Look at his adorable hands and feet!’
In fact, no-one I’ve met – either friend or stranger – has ever made a nasty comment about Teddy’s appearance.
They just want to know more about him and his unique features.
And I finally feel as if I’m ready for their questions.
Teddy is 20 months old now, and he’s had surgery to separate all of his fingers and some of his toes.
He’s even been signed for a baby modelling agency – we can’t wait for the whole world to see him!
And in January this year, Daniel and I found out that I was pregnant again.
It’s extremely unlikely our baby will be born with Apert syndrome, but whatever happens, one thing’s for sure.
Our new babe will have the best big brother in the world.
We can’t wait for the whole world to see him!