Today you turned six years old. I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe it’s been six years since that incredible night/morning you were born. I won’t lie and say any part of your delivery was pleasant or anything. Well, things were pleasant until the pitocin started doing it’s job. Then it was a symphony of pain and agony. But every mind-numbing contraction was worth it in the end when you were delivered safe and sound.
I often have to remind myself how close we came to losing you that night. It’s easy to gloss that over now, six years later, when you’ve never been anything but the picture of health. But that night, kiddo, you weren’t doing so hot. You never did like the contractions. I can’t blame you, they weren’t a picnic for me either. Your heart liked them even less. Then? When it was time for me to push, you *really* didn’t like it. And the doctors didn’t like that you didn’t like it. And there wasn’t time to dilly dally… no time for a spinal block (just like there hadn’t been time for the epidural before push time came)… no time to worry, at least for me. I was literally whisked down the halls to the surgery suite and given a nice dose of general anesthesia. Just like that.
Yes, I’m still sad that I wasn’t “there” to witness your birth. Heck, nearly everyone else on the maternity ward saw you before I did. I don’t have that moment, that euphoria that nearly every other mother experiences when hearing their child’s first cry. But when I did first see you, almost a mind-boggling 5 hours later, I was overwhelmed. You were gorgeous and I was 100% certain that everyone would know you were the best looking baby in all of creation.
I was still under the effects of the fabulous morphine drip combined with the fatigue that only a night full of hard labor can bring when you turned blue for the second time in the infant nursery. They came to our room to tell us you were now in the NICU. I could barely wrap my mind around it but I felt this overwhelming assurance that everything was going to be okay. Knowing all I know now, all I’ve experienced, I’m not sure I would have had the same feeling. My second meeting with you didn’t take place until nearly 8 hours later (*8* hours, people), when I was finally coherent enough to have your father help me into a wheelchair and take me down to the NICU to see you and nurse you and absorb your sweetness.
What a day. I’m so happy that it has all ended well. You never had another moment of distress, you’ve been healthier than I could have ever hoped for ever since. I’ve been so lucky. You are the sort of child that many women dream of having. Is it any wonder that I want a sibling for you, to see if I can recreate perfection?
Happy Birthday, my dearest H. You’ll never know how much I love you.
