Nine years

Did I know, nine years ago, that I was meeting the person who would teach me the most about my heart walking around independent of my body?


All I knew is that it was June, I was fat and melting, and I was telling myself over and over that the whole “poop yourself in labor” thing was a myth (it wasn’t).

I was not prepared for anything I felt that day. Not the helplessness. Not the pain. Not the weirdness of people shaving my ladyparts. Not *shudder* the enema.

Not the love I felt when I saw your little face.
Or the worry I had when you had to be taken away.

I’ve said this before in your birthday post, but I’ll say it again because it’s my favorite memory of that day…

It was late, you’d been away from me for hours. I hadn’t seen you since the few minutes I had to hold you right after you were born.
The nurse brought you to me, swaddled up in those telltale hospital blankets and wide awake.
You didn’t make a sound until the nurse bent over and put you in my arms.

Then, you started to cry.

I was crushed. I came thisclose to handing you back and sobbing myself to sleep.

But for some reason, I just talked to you. I don’t remember what I said. Probably some crap babytalk that I wasn’t supposed to use.

Regardless, I talked. And as soon as you heard my voice, you stopped. You just looked at me, satisfied that I was the right person.

It was immediate, and if I hadn’t been there I probably would think I was exaggerating.

It was probably the last time you were quiet in your life.

In the last nine years, you have been such an adventure. I am so lucky to know you and to watch you grow into such a cool little person.

You are awkward and you explain too much. You want everyone to understand everything you’re talking about.

But you want everyone to be happy. You want the best for everyone and if there is injustice, you want it fixed.

I am so proud to be your mom. I can’t wait to see the rest of what you become.

I love you.


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