So many meanings to that title. Today, my eldest baby is 3 years old. Three years ago today, Matt and I saw the miracle that made us a family of 3 for the first time. In the next two years, we added two more little girls- 3 in total. 3 is a good number.
Three years ago, I was shaking and crying in the LMH parking lot. My heart was racing as were my thoughts- I was about to endure the scary process of induction. My mind was too focused on the journey and not on the prize at the end of that journey. My husband and mother dragged me into the hospital and I pondered all the ways my life was about to change.
In the immediate future, I would be experiencing what most women call "the worst pain of my life-" I wasn't ready for that change. I enjoyed being pregnant. Now I was actually in the hospital room getting ready to change into the gown I'd be wearing when I met my first born. It took nine months for this moment to arrive, and then it suddenly snuck up on me and went too fast. All this change was overwhelming. But when I was faced with the option of going home without giving birth, I began to focus on the prize.
I wanted to look at my daughter's face. I wanted to see that mystery of a human who had spent the last nine months growing safely in my belly. I needed to hold her. To stare at her. To look her over and count her toes. I needed my baby.
I stayed that night in the hospital and experienced "the worst pain of my life." It became obvious around 1 am that sleep was not in my near future-but pitocin was. The not-so gradual increase in pain sent me into a daze. I said things I don't remember- but my husband reminds me of some obscenities that flew out of my mouth. I do, however, remember one thing said to me- "You're my hero!" Thank you, Matt. That one comment made a big difference, and it's one of the only things I remember prior to that yummy epidural.
19 hours into labor- the man of my dreams came into the room. After the nasty, long needle came out of my back, I instantly felt better. I could finally relax. I could once again focus on my mystery human. Is she a red head? Will she have my eyes? My husbands height? Will she be a teacher or a lawyer? Will I figure out how to raise a child without an instruction book?
My mind fast-forwards 6 hours to the moment I first saw her "cheesy," squirming body enter this world. Her eyes were closed and her face was wrinkled. She looked wet. She looked absolutely beautiful. I screamed and cried, "That's my baby!" as I reached out my arms to cradle her tiny body. My mystery was now lying across my chest, quietly resting with her eyes wide open. "She's so alert," I thought.
We had a few moments together to stare each other in the eyes. It felt as if I had always known her. My past life instantly became a distant memory as I anticipated the new life we'd soon start as a family of three.
The nurses lifted her off of me and I watched as they walked her to the warming table. Somebody pointed out that Kenli had pooped allover my arm. I laughed and thought, "Wow, she really welcomed me to motherhood." Once I realized my daughter was actually here, that change I had feared so much seemed natural and normal. Not scary at all.
Kenli, Matt and I got to know each other better over the next few days we spent in the hospital. I cherish that time. I focused all of my attention on that little girl who was evolving from a mystery to a completely unique human that my husband and I created. She wasn't just a dream anymore, she was as real as real can get.
Over the next three years we watched our tiny little seven pound, spiky-haired princess turn into a petite, red head with tons of spunk. We encouraged her first giggles, army crawl, and steps. We laughed with her when she was tickled. We cried with her when she was hurt. We enjoyed welcoming two new babies with her. We grew up with her.
Kenli, I love you for all that you are, all that you have been, and all that you will be. I love your caring spirit. Your curiosity. The silly things you say. Your strong-willed spirit. The way you tell me good night. The way you play with your sisters. The way you sneak cupcakes off of the counter, show me that you did, and then wait for my response. You are my firstborn and my first baby love. Your spirit is alive in me and that makes me a better person. Thank you, most of all, for just being you.
All of my love forever and ever,
Mommy
1 comment:
Politically, I can say with all honesty, we couldn't disagree more. But as kids go, I'm so there with you! My three were born by c-section, so the pain didn't come until after the birth. But it was pain, and it was dealt with while also trying to care for a newborn, instead of before they arrived. But my three are beautiful and wonderful and incredibly challenging! Thanks for sharing your story!
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