I wonder how long this is gonna take. I mean, we went through classes but they never really gave us a time lapse of development. Realistically, this could take days...I've heard the horror stories. And how much is it gonna hurt?
Every thought was about me as we drove to the hospital that night. Every thought preceding those thoughts, in fact, was about me. I had resigned myself to never seeing my toes again, never putting on socks or shoes independently and that I'd be pregnant forever.
Even the final tipping point -- the thought that put us on the road to the hospital -- was about. ME:
As if my feet being strangers to my eyes isn't enough, now I've got cramps. Like period cramps. Like excruciating period cramps.
My husband snored as I powered through the crampy stomach until it dawned on me: Uh-oh. I better wake him up. This baby is happening now, despite the doctor prediction's of its arrival of the next day.
Eight hours and a final push later, she arrived. IT'SA GIRL! the doctor announced. But even then, it was about me: for the nine months that she was my constant companion, I was sure -- SURE -- this baby was a boy.
Are you sure?
I wanted to ask but didn't since my OB and at least ten residents saw this kid enter the world with girl parts and probably signed off on some certificate someplace saying that they all conferred, and that yes, this baby was indeed a girl.
Okay. I screw up stuff sometimes. Just give me my Babygirl.
And they did.
I'd like to say that we looked at each other in those first moments of her life, but science says that babies can't see clearly within hours of birth. All I know is that she didn't cry. I felt like we just looked at each other for space in time that felt frozen and sacred. I'll always feel like she saw my few lonely, happy, I-gotta-get-this-right tears all the same.
That's when life stopped being about me: after all, I got picked to be this amazing human being's momma and was a primary gardener responsible for cultivating every good and perfect seed within her to bloom.
And every minute of every day of every hour since, I'm still praying I don't screw it up.
Happy Birthday, Babygirl.
Every thought was about me as we drove to the hospital that night. Every thought preceding those thoughts, in fact, was about me. I had resigned myself to never seeing my toes again, never putting on socks or shoes independently and that I'd be pregnant forever.
Even the final tipping point -- the thought that put us on the road to the hospital -- was about. ME:
As if my feet being strangers to my eyes isn't enough, now I've got cramps. Like period cramps. Like excruciating period cramps.
My husband snored as I powered through the crampy stomach until it dawned on me: Uh-oh. I better wake him up. This baby is happening now, despite the doctor prediction's of its arrival of the next day.
Eight hours and a final push later, she arrived. IT'SA GIRL! the doctor announced. But even then, it was about me: for the nine months that she was my constant companion, I was sure -- SURE -- this baby was a boy.
Are you sure?
I wanted to ask but didn't since my OB and at least ten residents saw this kid enter the world with girl parts and probably signed off on some certificate someplace saying that they all conferred, and that yes, this baby was indeed a girl.
Okay. I screw up stuff sometimes. Just give me my Babygirl.
And they did.
I'd like to say that we looked at each other in those first moments of her life, but science says that babies can't see clearly within hours of birth. All I know is that she didn't cry. I felt like we just looked at each other for space in time that felt frozen and sacred. I'll always feel like she saw my few lonely, happy, I-gotta-get-this-right tears all the same.
That's when life stopped being about me: after all, I got picked to be this amazing human being's momma and was a primary gardener responsible for cultivating every good and perfect seed within her to bloom.
And every minute of every day of every hour since, I'm still praying I don't screw it up.
Happy Birthday, Babygirl.
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