welcome to the world, little one
I had a feeling you’d come early. Your dad wanted to share his birthday with you, but you had your own plans.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this morning when we packed our bags into the car. I lay on the table during what I hope is my last prenatal appointment. I’m praying the midwife will tell us it’s time to check into the hospital. She smiles, “5 cm. I hope you guys packed your bags. It’s time to head to the hospital and have this baby”. I cry as waves of anticipation and relief wash over me. Exhaustion and pain emanate from me as we make our way from the clinic to the delivery ward at the hospital. It’s only 9 am, but rest is all I can think about after a sleepless night of early labor. The nurse settles us into our room with the promise of rest once the epidural kicks in. To me, she‘ll always be an angel in person. Robyn.
I stare out the window of the delivery room between contractions. They’re getting closer together. I’m thankful for the few hours of rest - the calm before the storm. The rain is getting heavier outside. I can hear the thunder roaring and flashes of white dancing across the sky. I’m a sunshine lover through and through, but in this moment, I feel a kinship with this storm. It’s almost time. I breathe deeply and can hear your dad’s gentle but firm voice in my head as he sits next to me: “smell the flowers, blow out the candle, my darling.” Anxiety is a funny thing. I spent years being afraid of childbirth. Now that it’s here, I feel no fear. I look out at the storm, a powerful force. The contractions come like waves cascading within me. I hear my own voice: “I am the storm.” I’m ready.
You arrive after just over an hour of pushing. Your dad by my side the whole time with an agreement between us to keep the mystery alive: eye contact only. He rubs my head, and I’m thankful for his touch. The nurse guides me every step of the way. Her years of experience shine through. One final push and I feel like something breaks open within me, releasing you into the world. The room fills with a deafening silence for what feels like an eternity, but is only seconds. I can’t breathe until I hear the only sound that matters: your cry.
It’s 4:50 pm when they put you in my arms. A healthy 7 lb, 4 oz. baby boy. The spitting image of your dad. You’re perfect. I can’t believe you’re here. We did it. I look back out the window with you on my chest. The sun is shining again. I smile. My heart is grateful, my body is exhausted, and my mind is at peace. The storm has passed.
