This post is going
to be … gratuitous.
I only want to post
10 of my very favorite pictures of you and have people remark on how freaking
cute you were/are and have my little nostalgic pity party of one as I reflect
on the fact that you’re turning 10.
Ten.
Freaking.
Years.
Old.
In 2007
You were born the same year as the iPhone. I used to say that I was born the same year as the height of the Iranian hostage situation – deep, dark, yes, but it’s what my own Mama wrote in
my baby book under “News and Noteworthy” – I think you’ll have much more
traction (not to mention relatability) with your claim to fame. Lucky.
It’s actually impossibly
insane how fast time goes – how’s it’s always been lightening fast since you barreled into this world at 12:37pm on Friday, December 7th, 2007 …
after 31.5 hours of labor and missing your due date by a solid ten days past.
And there wasn’t any barreling to be clear. I was hungry and you needed to come
out in order for me to eat, so I pushed without stopping in between 10 counts
for all of 45 minutes and out you came, not crying, very calm, very girl, and
you looked right at the doctor and sneezed into her face.
You’ve always had a
way with first impressions.
I didn’t want them
to keep you in the nursery. After all, you’d taken up permanent residency under
my ribcage for all of 276 days, give or take. I couldn’t NOT have you in that
postpartum room with me. Sleep, they told me. Rest now and we’ll keep her just
down the hall. You can see her in the morning.
I pushed my nurse
call button.
“Yeah … I’m gonna
need her back, like now,” I whispered since the Dad was passed out cold on that
unfortunate Partner Couch Bed. And dutifully, those lovely nurses returned you
to me and we settled into that mechanical hospital bed in the cold dark of
December, and drifted off into mother/daughterland.
Those were some of
the very best days of my life. I’m grateful for my ironclad memory that places
me back into that tiny sterile room and hovers above the lovely scene, soaking
in every memory – how the visitors poured into our room and cooed over you and
prayed over you and played guitar solos over you (that’s a true story)
welcoming you to our amazing village. I remember dressing you in your
almost-too-small fuzzy newborn going home outfit in neutral greens and whites
and just having an overwhelming sense of peace now that you were here and real,
and part of us.
And We Went Home
Just this week, a
dear old friend of mine sent me a picture of a sign with a verse scripted onto it; she said it reminded her of our sweet family.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
Ecclesiastes 4:12
The timing leading
up to your birthday and the fact that exactly 10 years ago, I was recovering
from childbirth, waddling around our warm, decorated house in my sweats,
slippers, and postpartum … glow, well it was just too perfect. As you’re very
well aware, I’m living this week much in the same manner. Padding around our
warm, decorated house in my sweats, slippers, and post-hysterectomy … unglow.
The parallels between now and exactly 10 years ago have been an oddly
satisfying. I’m reveling in the nostalgia and soaking up sweet memories of when
you were a fuzzy pile of sleep sacks, pacifiers, and that intoxicating newborn
scent.
Life has been so
good to us.
My surgeon said you
are a miracle of God – that medically speaking, your existence is truly a
wonder given the circumstances that led me to this week of recovery. When
you’re a parent, you know children
are miracles. That biology and science and human reproduction aren’t nearly as
easy to manipulate as your parents or health teacher might tell you as an
agitated teenager in love for the first time. The surgeon told me that you, Kid Rock, are an inexplicable miracle, obviously hell-bent on being in this world.
I’m taking her word
for it.
Thank you for
fighting the fight and beating the odds to join Daddy and I here a decade ago.
You’re our third and final strand, and probably everyone’s favorite, including
his and mine. Over a sprinkled pancake breakfast this morning complete with a
candle, Daddy told you what the doctors have been saying all along – you are our miracle, and we love you so, so
much.
You smiled a sticky
sweet smile and said, I know.
Mama loves.
