Delightful news today: our friends Julie and Paul just welcomed their first child to the world. This is a hard-fought-for, much-desired child, and Julie endured all manner of hell in her pregnancy and I am beyond thrilled that it has ended so happily.
But only slightly connected to all that is this: I was poking around her blog, which I had not seen before, and happened on an old post, on the occasion of my daughter's birth, that I had never seen, never even known existed.
You know how you think "I hope I've led a good life, made a few people happy, did my best" but you know can't really know it? Well, apparently I did good; I was able to give her comfort when she needed it, and I had no idea she had been so moved by it. I sat and read the lovely things she had to say last year and cried at my desk.
So welcome to the world, son of my friend. You've got a hell of a mama.
In one hour, my daughter Beatrix will be one year old. I can't believe we made it. Well, I can believe she made it-- she's a tough lil' bunny. What I can't believe is that I made it.
Because it seems to be more or less traditional, I'll mention a few of the things I was thinking and going through a year ago today as I lay sleepless and cetacean-like at 9+ months.
"Holy crap, I'm having a baby tomorrow. That's a weird thing to know for sure. Most people have no idea how long it will take. I have an appointment. WITH THE BABY."
"I hope I don't die on the operating table because I would hate to have my one and only sojourn in a hospital be my last. I'd never get to find out if hospital food sucks as much as everyone says." (The answer, for the record is: somewhat.)
"Girl or boy? Girl or boy? Girl or boy? Girl or boy?"
"God, how can he sleep? Should I poke him? No, better not. One of us should get some sleep. That's what real parents say, right?"
15 hours after this late-night conversation with myself, I was the mother of the most beautiful baby girl to ever grace this earth.
A shout-out to my support team: My husband Josh, father of said gorgeous creature; my sister Amy, a beacon of calm and sanity and enthusiasm; the anesthesiologist, Anna, who held my hand and didn't bullshit me on what was going to happen; my sweet OB, Dr. H., who discussed the merits of Kill Bill with her operating partner while stitching up my gaping belly, thus inadvertently reassuring me; whoever invented Percoset, which I downed like candy for the next three days.
Happy birthday, sweet girl. I want to see you mash that cake tomorrow.
--Love, Mama
I think Hee Haw said it best:
"Gloom, despair, and agony on me."