When words are not enough....

There’s a hurt from which I’m not sure that you can recover…I think that it cuts so deep that you will always feel the pain. It might be dull, it might be manageable, but it is always always there. Like the spot on my stomach that is tender to the touch, even 16 years after giving birth to Addy the Musician. I asked my doctor why it hurt so much, and he figures that there are stitches there from where he sewed the fat pad back in place. (the fact that I had a fat pad is almost as disturbing to me as the knowledge that he had it essentially off and then sewed it back on!) To this day, I can tell you where that spot is, because if I touch it just right, the scar is still there.

Of course, I’m talking about losing a child.

I cannot imagine losing a child and getting out of bed the next morning. A friend once pointed out that I would get out of bed because I still have other children, but I disagree. I would want to bring them all into my bed with me and protect them from the world.

I even dread my children leaving home. I know that it must happen, and that I cannot stop the hands of time. I just hope that when that day comes, I will be strong enough to survive. I love having my children in our home, and I think that I would love to have them and their families in a great big compound so that we can be together always.

This deep and abiding love was born the moment that I learned that Tux was going to be coming to our family. I was about 6 weeks along, and not yet feeling any morning sickness or discomfort. I began to feel some discomfort, and freaked out . I cried, I prayed, and I hoped. My doctor told me that it was merely my uterus growing rapidly that caused the discomfort, but I still worried.

I was anxious throughout my entire pregnancy with Addy. I don’t know why, but I had the idea that I was not going to get to keep this baby, and so I was worried to get too attached. Even driving to the hospital, I felt concern that I would not be bringing him home.

My worst fears came true when I found out that I was pregnant with Todd. I began to spot, then bleed, and then outright hemorrhage. I was on bedrest for two weeks as we waited to see if I would miscarry. It turned out that I had placenta previa, and it was the placenta attaching near my cervix that was causing the bleeding, but it was a nerve wracking two weeks.

I would sob every time I saw the bleeding that meant that I might be losing my baby. I begged my Heavenly Father to let me keep him. I had a priesthood blessing that said that this ‘surprise would bring great joy to my family.’ It didn’t promise a baby, but it was encouraging.

Hubby would tell me that it was okay, that I was probably worried about nothing. Well meaning people would tell me that it would be okay. But NO, it would not be okay. It would never be okay if I lost my baby. I talked with a cousin that had endured early pregnancy bleeding, and she, too, felt that no amount of encouragement could lift her spirits. Nothing that anyone said could take away the fear and pain.

This pregnancy was difficult all of the way through. I was on restrictions for most of the pregnancy, on bedrest at the end. Todd was ultimately premature. The fear never ended.

I have someone that I love very much who is struggling with this fear right now. I know that fear, I know that ache. I know that nothing that I can say will make it better, and that is heartbreaking. There is nothing to say, nothing to offer, other than the support that someone who has been through this can offer.

What I do know is that my children were my children from the moment that I learned that they existed. I don’t care how many cells they were, or how perfectly or rudimentally formed they were at the time. I got to see Todd in an ultrasound when he still had an egg sac, and he was still my baby. I could see his tiny heart beat, and he was a person to me. I would have grieved their loss the same whether I was barely pregnant or had raised them. The hurt would be the same.

Another cousin recently lost a baby at 19 weeks gestation. The hospital that she gave birth at was incredibly loving and allowed the parents time with their baby, giving him little clothing and blankets and letting them say goodbye. What compassion they showed to a family that had lost a member, when often, it is considered merely a miscarriage, and not a lost life.

For this reason, I could never choose to terminate a pregnancy for any reason. Nor could I participate in IVF, where multiple eggs are fertilized and frozen. I would have to carry each of them, like Octomom, or allow them to be adopted. I could not destroy even that early stage of life.

When I was carrying the older boys, I wondered when their little spirits entered their body. Tux was insanely active in utero. He bounced off of the walls the entire time. We fought over my ribs, he teased. He rarely slept or rested.

This is exactly Tux’s personality, even now.

Along came Addy, who was more laid back. Once a day, he would slowly roll over in my stomach, barely making a ripple. No fights over vital organs and who should or should not be stepping on them. No stretches that made me want to gasp as my bones were pushed apart with great force. And true to this, Addy is my more laid back child. He sleeps more, is less wild and active, and generally acts exactly as he did before his birth.

Todd is much like Tux, wild and crazy and active. Both in, and out. You cannot convince me that their spirits are not with them right from the beginning.

To anyone who has ever lost a child, whether that child was full grown, or barely bigger than a dot, my heart goes out to you. To even breathe after such a loss is commendable. I wish that there were something that I could say to make the hurt go away, to ease it even slightly. All I can offer is my love and support, and that is not enough, I know.

We always wonder where the lesson is in each life trial. For some, we may never know. We just have to have faith and continue to trust in our Heavenly Father. He will keep us and comfort us, and use each experience for our own good. We can’t let it shake our faith or keep us from loving again.

To my sweet loved one that is suffering, I wish that I could take some of the burden. My arms are around you always. I wish that I had more to offer.

I’ve always believed in the power of words, but at this time, they seem all but powerless.

The Indignity of being a WOMAN

On most days, I am proud to be a woman. On most days, I will extol the virtues of our gentle nature, our mothering instincts, and our sweet dispositions. (most of the time) But there is one day a year that I find it somewhat humiliating to be a woman.

Do you know what day that I mean? Yup, that’s the one. The day that we visit our ob/gyn.

The whole visit starts off badly. Is it absolutely necessary to say, “Hello, Mrs. Jaycie! How are you these days? Would you like to step on this scale and be completely embarrassed by how long it takes me to balance the little doohickey at your tremendous weight?”

No matter how cheerful that nurse sounds, she always follows her greeting with an invitation to step up on the plate. No sweet smile can offset that.

They then whisk you off to a room where you are asked a series of questions like:

“How old are you?” For heaven’s sake, you have my chart in front of you, and it clearly states the year that I was born. Can you not do the math??? Must you make me say it out loud, when I am clearly in denial over the whole thing?

“Three children?” You thought that perhaps I was crazy enough to have MORE? Or did you think that three was far too many mini-me’s to have let loose upon the world???

“Date of your last known period?” Okay, this one is tricky. I’m sure that I had one last month, but I may have had one in the meanwhile that just slipped by me without me knowing.


When this is over, she invites you to go into the lavatory and leave a sample for her. At least this is easier in my normal state than it was nine months pregnant, when they want you to do this for them weekly. Truly, do they expect you to get a clean sample in that little cup when you cannot even see your own FEET, much less the nether regions of your body? Really, a joy to do today, when you think of it in that perspective.

Next is the doctor’s turn. I enjoy this part, as my doctor and I go back to the birth of Tux. It made me laugh today when he asked the ages of my children, sighing when I told him that Tux was now 18 years old. We’ve been together for a long time, my doctor and me.

He always asks me if my parents are alive and how old they are. I take great pleasure in reminding him that my father is HIS age, and my mother a year younger. I know this because once during a pre-natal visit, he and my mother got talking and realized that they lived in the same valley and had once attended many of the same record hops that a local radio station sponsored. (the wild kids attended these record hops, just to let you in on a little secret!)

He asks his own set of uncomfortable questions, and follows up with, “Hmmm…your weight is up a little.” Really? I hadn’t noticed! And thank you so much for bringing it to my attention, because my day wasn’t nearly bad enough already.

Then things get really interesting. He gives me the lovely little paper drapes and tells me that he will be right back. I stack my clothing neatly on the chair, so as not to look like a slob…tucking any unmentionables into the folds of my jeans so that there is nothing embarrassing hanging out. Then I don my special ‘clothing’, and try to sit nonchalantly on the table.

There is absolutely no way to look casual sitting on an exam table wearing paper clothing that covers only one hemisphere of your girth. Let’s just get that out in the open. So I am trying out positions in which I can pose to look the least awkward when he comes back in. Despite repeated efforts, I never find one that feels carefree.

He knocks on the door. What do you answer??

“Come in!” (always delivered in a singsong voice like you are hosting a Tupperware party in there)

“I’m ready.” (said somewhat provocatively? Or perhaps with doom and gloom dripping from each word?)

“It’s okay!” (which technically means that he is not going to catch my lily white bum as I dash to the table, trying to cover myself before he gets fully into the room, but in my mind, means that I approve of this situation, of which I do not!)

“I’m NAKED!” (which seems the most natural, and what comes to mind first!)


Or the more direct, “I’m as covered as I’m gonna get and you are going to see it all in a minute, anyway!”

{Sigh}

At this point, I get to explain to him why my three year old still thinks that he needs to nurse at night, at which the doctor gets a case of the giggles and spends the rest of my time laughing about needing a little nip before nap time. He apparently enjoys this joke, as it keeps him amused throughout the exam.

I add to the conversation that Todd announced to me in Sacrament Meeting at church the other day, (quite loudly) “Don’t wake up my brudder and don’t get your nipples out!” Now, clearly, his brother needed to be awake during church, but the nipples thing? I mean, really, I usually pop them out during our meetings, don’t I? This is after he had loudly thanked his brother for passing him the Sacrament, and then both kissed and licked the little girl sitting behind us.

As we get to the heart of the exam, our favorite part…where usually you look at the ceiling in silence and hope that no one notices that you are there…I decided to defy tradition and looked up over my drape to tell my doctor that SOMEONE needed to invent instruments that were a bit more comfortable.

I think that he was as glad to see me leave as I was. Thank heaven it only happens once a year.

Now I just have to do the follow-up mammogram. Not a bad test, really, for all of the bad press that it gets. It’s been years since I had one, although I’m supposed to go regularly, as my mother had breast cancer a few years ago.

Last time I went, Musician was about nine. He wanted to know where I was going, and I told him that I was going to have pictures taken of my breasts, so that the doctors could make sure that I didn’t have any cancer like grandma. He only caught the first part, and looked a little worried.

“They are going to take pictures of your breasts?” He asked for clarification. “Why? So the doctors can go…” he raised his eyebrows repeatedly and then got a big grin. “Woo hoo?”

I’ve had three children and nursed for a total of 81 months. Trust me. There’s not gonna be any woohooing for THOSE pictures.

My Darkest Day

Boy, that sounds ominous, doesn’t it? I had to reconsider the title before deciding that it would work…not because the day that I am going to discuss is not Dark, but that I’m always hesitant to define the best or the worst. What if I remember a darker day later? So the day that I’m going to tell you about is the Darkest Day that I remember as of this minute…and hopefully the Darkest Day that I’ll ever have! I can’t even think of being more miserable.

It was three years ago today. I had given birth the day before to a beautiful, albeit tiny Baby boy. He was perfect! At 33.5 weeks gestation, he weighed only 4 lb 5 oz, but was healthy and didn’t even look like a preemie. He was our miracle…an oops that we could never have imagined in our most wonderful dreams. The pregnancy was more difficult than my other two, but he was wanted and loved as much as they had been. They had been perfectly planned; he was a glorious surprise. As one would expect, he was taken from my arms to NICU in minutes after his birth. He was on a ventilator for only about 30 minutes, and that only because he had ingested blood and needed to clear his lungs and throat.

The dark day began at midnight, when all of the other mommies in post-partum were waking to feed their newborns. Midnight is a key time, as the nurses come in to weigh the babies for the start of the day, and there is crying all down the hall for a good hour or so. Beautiful wailing of sweet little ones, who are so new to the earth that they are still scared and agitated when taken from their mother. My baby was one floor above me, and I was unable to be with him. I’d never experienced this before. My other two were able to spend most of their day in my room, and I had full access to them. Since I’d had a cesarean, I couldn’t move well, and was confined to my bed. I had visited him many times that first day, when my family would take me in a wheelchair to sit next to his isolette. But all night, I heard the full term babies cry as they were checked out, then slip into silence as they snuggled up to sleep.

Because he had been born so early, I felt as if I was suddenly and inexplicably alone. I had been in bed for 12 days prior, every minute being aware of his movements and listening to his heartbeat on monitors. Now, it was quiet…no baby heartbeat, no movement, just an empty space where he used to be.

I was being cheated of more than a full month of feeling my baby move inside me. My body was completely out of whack, having terminated the pregnancy much earlier than it had expected, and I think it was about that time that the hormones began to fly off of the charts.

I was very tired, as I had not slept much the night before his birth, either. My blood pressure had been abnormally low – which I felt was a blessing! As a mother of “advanced maternal age”, I had worried that my blood pressure would be high, so when they were worried about it being low, I couldn’t see why it was a problem! My doctor came in first thing that morning and did some tests, then seriously talked with me about the blood pressure issue. She said that if my hematocrits did not come up considerably, that they would need to give me a blood transfusion. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to her, as it was now daylight and I was ready to see my baby. My health seemed to be a minor concern, compared to what he was having to endure, and I simply did not want to waste any time talking about it. Because I had such low blood pressure, they would not remove my catheter or IV, and I had to be moved in a wheelchair.

On top of all of this, I hadn’t really paid attention to or asked about my pain meds, and somehow, they slipped through the cracks. Okay, I was a little flighty when it came to those things; I simply wanted to get up to NICU. So I went most of that day without any pain meds after having major surgery the day before. I was in intense pain, and it wears you down.

I finally arrived in NICU to see my baby. He had slept well, and would be able to eat today. What great news! As a breastfeeding mother, I knew that would give us time to bond and be together. I’d never had a preemie before. I had no idea how different they are from a full-term baby. I didn’t realize that he was not strong enough to suck, much less to breastfeed, which takes much more energy. ‘Eating’ for him meant a gavage tube down his nose, through which they fed him the precious few drops that I was able to express that first night.

The nurse that was in charge of him that morning was not particularly forthcoming, and didn’t explain much about what was happening. I sat in my wheelchair, all day, watching him sleep. I could touch him, although the nurse didn’t seem to like that, and I certainly couldn’t take him out and hold him. The nurse appeared to be very put out that I wanted to hold him, and put me off as long as possible. And he did NOT want me to breastfeed! I felt so alienated and didn’t get to connect with the baby at all! Even when I held him, I felt like the nurse was agitated that I was doing it, and it made me more crazy.

I returned to my room that night and was inconsolable. I cried harder than I can ever remember crying. You have no idea the emotions that you will feel when your child is in NICU…pain, loneliness, and sorrow that your child is not with you…panic that something will go wrong, especially when you are not in the NICU with him…isolation, because the world keeps spinning and all you can think about is your baby, wanting to be with him even if it means spending hours just staring at him…anger that this has happened, that you are not able to take him home…frustration that you don’t understand what is happening with him, and that the world of preemies is so intimidating and confusing…loss in the sense that you have had weeks of pregnancy taken from you, and that your dream of having a healthy baby to love has been dashed…and GUILT…because it was MY body that did this to him.

I was so frustrated with my role as his parent, because I had not even had the chance to hold him and love him that day. I wondered if he would come home to a family that he didn’t know, a mother that he didn’t recognize. I had no idea how to parent him!

My hubby tried desperately to get me to sleep, to get my pain meds worked out, and to take care of myself. He knew that if I was in better condition, I would be able to help my baby more effectively, but I was hopeless.

By early the following morning, I had cried a million tears. As the night progressed, I went from despondent, to angry, to furious. By the time morning came, I was a new woman. My meds had stabilized, and I was able to get up and walk around. I went down the hall to fill my own icewater, something that I’d been unable to do for the last two weeks. That was really liberating!!! And thankfully, my blood pressure had come up and I was able to shed the unwanted baggage that I’d had to drag around.

I marched into NICU that morning with determination. A wonderful, caring, and amazing nurse was in charge of him, a great change from the medically competent but emotionally distant nurse from the day before. I stood my ground, and let her know how difficult that day had been for me. How I felt like I was being shuffled off, away from the baby. That the nurse hadn’t explained anything, and that I wanted to be with my baby and care for my baby as much as I could.

She simply smiled, and began to fill me in on the intricacies of premature babies. I learned so much from her over the three weeks that he remained in the hospital! They are an entirely different breed from full term babies! She explained to me why things were being done, how much I could be involved, and how important it was for me to be there for him. I felt empowered! I was able to change his diaper, take his temperature, and assist in any things that the nurses were doing with him.

I still cried. Between hormones and emotions running rampant, I cried until the day he was allowed to come home. But at least I felt that I was able to DO something; my baby was not completely out of my care.

Our time in NICU was the longest three weeks EVER. But, in hindsight, it is something that I will treasure forever. I truly believe that the closest thing to heaven on earth is NICU. These tiny frail bodies are almost always inhabited by the most vibrant spirits! (If they are not valiant spirits, they do not make it that far) To be in their presence is an honor. And the staff…I cannot say enough about NICU staff. They are angels. Besides the terrible day that we had, which was just one nurse that was not empathetic. These nurses and doctors not only care for the fragile babies in their care, but they treat the entire family, as we work through the process. They took care of our physical needs, our emotional needs. They talked me through the hard times, they comforted me when I thought that my baby would never go home. Most of all, they provided excellent, loving care for my baby. I will forever be in awe of the staff that blessed us.

Three years later – the baby had a birthday on Monday! – He is healthy and wild and crazy and strong, and you would never know that he was once a scrawny little preemie. The three weeks in NICU seems like a flash in the pan. I’ve not since had a day nearly so dark…but I learned a great deal that day. I learned that you have to stand up for yourself. You have to voice your concerns, and ASK for help. Ask in prayer, and ask those around you. You need to be an active participant in everything that you do.

I also learned that post-surgery pain meds are a must, sleep is a very good thing, and once in awhile, my hubby is right. {wink}

The Day that I Met You

But if I was blessed

with just one day

That I could hold forever

I would save

The day that I met you

When I was a young newlywed, I knew that I wanted children…someday. There were days when it seemed like such a natural, wonderful thing. But there were days when I wondered if I would have the patience and be willing to make the necessary sacrifices that it would take to be a mother.

A friend with young children told me that I would know when it was time when the urge to have children came – and stayed. Boy, was she right! I was 24. We had been married for two years, and had had time to be a couple and do all of the things that couples without children could do. We had set a tentative date to start trying to have a baby…January 1990.

My plan was to conceive in February, and have the baby in November. That worked for my schedule, which was busy during the summer, but more forgiving in the winter. I would be on maternity leave over the holidays, and have a winter baby. (I love babies in snuggly blankets!) My mom reminded me that you cannot plan these things too tightly.

At Thanksgiving, my cousins came to visit, and two families had small children. They were SOOOO adorable! I threw away my birth control pills that weekend.

December came and went, which was fine, I was distracted by the holidays. Not that I didn’t get all excited and take a pregnancy test when I was 4 minutes late…but the negative test was not unexpected.

January came and went. I was becoming agitated.

February came. Still nothing. I was devastated. I felt like I had always been able to do anything that I tried…sometimes more successfully than others…but I’d never completely failed like this. I got a little crazy, and drove my family crazy. It was all that I could think about.

Thankfully, I was able to receive an answer to my prayers. It was not what I had hoped for, but it was an answer. I would conceive a child, but I needed to stop obsessing about it. I didn’t know if that meant that I would conceive if I relaxed, or if it meant that it would be some time before it happened, so I should not get so uptight. I was just able to trust it and throw myself into a big project that I had looming.

Sometime around 1 April, we took my brother to the airport to go back to college. I slept all of the way home, feeling a little nauseated. And I still felt a little icky that evening. My husband laughed and told me that I must be pregnant. I laughed, too.

Imagine my mother’s surprise when I took the test and found that I had gotten pregnant in February, and would deliver in November!

I worried while I was pregnant. The Gulf War was building up steam, and I wasn’t sure that I even wanted my baby to leave the safety of my womb. I worried about my baby’s health. I worried about whether or not I would be able to keep my baby healthy and safe. I worried that my baby would get hungry and I would not be in the mood to feed it. I worried that my baby would be ugly and I wouldn’t want it. (My mom assured me that I would think that it was beautiful. I was dubious.)

I was due November 23. I intended to give birth on the 19^th. I had taken leave from work beginning on the 17^th, so I wouldn’t have a lot of down time to sit around and wait. I would have a brand new baby for Thanksgiving. It worked into my plans perfectly. My mother reminded me that you cannot plan these things.

On the 19^th, I awoke hopeful. I went to my doctor and he told me that the baby was in no hurry, and that we would probably have to induce on the 6 of December. What frustration!

That night, my water broke at 11:45. I called Mom to gloat, telling her that I would be a day off! After 19 hours of labor, my first son was delivered by Cesarean Section. It seems that I have what they call Cephalo-Pelvic Disproportion; the baby’s head is larger than the room in my pelvis to deliver it. I would never have delivered him without medical intervention. (something that would have been helpful to know some 19 hours earlier, let me assure you!)

I wanted boys more than anything. I guess that came naturally, since I had a younger brother. I was terrified of girls. I held my breath as they delivered my baby. The first relief was that it was a boy. The second relief came when they showed him to me…and he was ADORABLE! I wanted to keep him!

That first night was the most amazing night. I could hardly believe that I had a child! I had seen him only briefly, it seemed, as I came out of the anesthesia that they gave me to rest after he had been delivered. I awoke in recovery and was able to hold him for about an hour before he was whisked away for the night. Everyone had gone home, including my husband, who had been mostly awake since the previous morning and needed sleep desperately.

So at midnight, I called my Mom and talked to her, telling her everything that she already knew about the birth and my son. True to her nature, she listened and laughed and rejoiced with me, even though she was exhausted, too. (I had morphine in my meds, so I was ready and raring to go)

Somehow, I made it through that night, counting the minutes until they brought him to me at 6 AM. I opened his blanket and counted fingers and toes, and stared into his face…which seemed a small mirror of my own. When he opened his eyes, it was a face of great wisdom, as if he already knew more than I would ever know. It was overwhelming and wonderful.

In the words of the song “The Day that I met You”:

One painful morning

I stared straight into the sun

It overwhelmed me

I came undone

This was the feeling…of looking into eternity and not knowing if you are strong enough to grasp it.

My second son took exactly one conversation to conceive. We discussed it, decided to start trying, and it was done. Seriously.

This time, we opted for a planned cesarean, skipping the he-woman labor thing. I arrived at the hospital fresh and clean, and well rested. A couple of hours later, they handed me my sweet baby.

He was not a happy baby when they took him from me. Perhaps he hadn’t had time to prepare like #1, who had 19 hours of labor to warn him. For #2, it was a couple of slices and then harsh daylight. He cried from the moment they suctioned his mouth until he was placed back in my arms in recovery. Actually, he stopped crying the moment that I talked to him. He knew my voice, and that he would be fine now that I was there.

He looked like his brother, and yet, when he opened his eyes…he looked nothing like his brother. He had a different demeanor, as well. While #1 had been an active, kicking baby, #2 was more laid back.

#2 was determined to keep mama nearby. When I decided to shower, I fed him, then gave him to my nurse to watch. They brought him back within a few minutes, before I even got out the door to shower. “He’s hungry,” they said. “He’s sucking his hands and crying.”

I got settled and took him into my arms and put him to breast. He took a couple of sips, to be polite, then settled in to snuggle. It wasn’t the food that he needed, he simply knew that this was the best way to get them to take him back to his mother. I had no idea that newborns were so manipulative!

While I had an easier recovery, not having had to go through labor, it was also a painful recovery. By this time in history, babies were rooming in with Mom, and this baby had to be attached to me at all times. I wasn’t sleeping well, and one night, I had the most painful cramps ever. When he would nurse, it was excruciating.

Still, it was the most amazing experience of my life, seeing those soft, new eyes. Knowing that he knew that I was his mother, that I would take care of him. What an awesome responsibility, to be the one that was charged with his welfare, both temporal and spiritual.

My third son was born many years later, which is a story in itself. He was delivered far from home, in the University Hospital. It was an emergency after 12 days of bedrest, so even my husband was unable to be there. I was scared and lonely and so worried about my baby, who was still almost 7 weeks from term.

When he was delivered, they brought him to me briefly to say goodbye before he was whisked off to NICU. He was angry, like his second brother. I kissed his head and felt his soft skin…so fuzzy, unlike term babies…and I couldn’t stop kissing him. I knew that when I did, he would be gone.

They finally took him away, and I was sent to recovery. That was the longest time of my life, knowing that my baby was being checked for his health, and that I couldn’t see him until I was able to go to NICU myself. Little did I know, but my husband had arrived, but had to wait for me upstairs. Talk about seconds ticking by.

They took me to NICU to see my pookie. I expected a scrawny bird-boy, like most preemies appear. He was fat and healthy looking, and so handsome. He looked nothing like either of his brothers. Funny how genetics works, isn’t it? I was in love at first sight.

This time around was painful, as my baby could not room with me. My baby could not even come to my room. At midnight, I heard other babies crying as they were stripped to be weighed by the night staff. My baby was a floor away from me, but it could have been a million miles. I was thrilled when they finally removed my catheter so that I could visit him whenever I wanted, even in the middle of the night.

Birth is not an easy process. There is the physical pain, to be sure, no matter what the circumstances. There is the mental anguish. There is worry. There is frustration, sometimes anger or guilt (as is the case with preemies), there is exhaustion.

And while we have had some incredible moments in the years that have passed since, there is something very magical (and hormonal) about that first day, that first look.

If I had to do it all over again – I would, in a heartbeat. I would take the 19 hours of labor, three cesareans (one in which the spinal failed and I could feel them sewing me up), the post-partum, the nasty aftereffects of having given birth. I would do it all five times over, just for that moment. Just to look into my baby’s eyes that first time. To see eternity stretch before me and know that I would have this remarkable, strong spirit to take the journey with me. That I had been trusted with this precious child of God on this earth. That I could love with all of my heart and more.

But if I could set aside one day

That I could hold forever

I would save

The day that I met you