Four years ago today I was sitting uncomfortably — unable to recline or relax — in a hospital bed waiting. Our little baby boy was coming to town. We didn’t know exactly when he would arrive, but the elephant-stomp contractions gave us every indication that it would happen soon.
Finally, after an emergency C-section, he was here. Ten months of wondering and worrying, he was here. When the nurse brought him around to me, I was still trying to process, still trying to click the pieces together like some strange puzzle. This baby is here, he’s mine, I’m his mother. And I’m also in an operating room, my abdomen still open, with an anesthesiologist to my left shoulder, my husband to my right, both whispering assurances about how well I did. Wait, SURGERY?!
It was surreal, to say the least, but when I close my eyes and think back, it’s the moment when I locked in on his sweet, round face — the color of milky tea — that still grabs my heart. Words can’t ever truly explain the surge of things that run through you when you see that baby for the first time. Yes, there’s a circus going on, a mix of sounds and smells and sights, but then there’s this moment when it all quiets, even for just a few seconds, and that little person comes into your focus and … man. You’re done. The imprint is made.
I still watch his little face — now looking more boy than baby — and I feel the surge. I have to clutch my chest sometimes, the grip of it is so strong. This is love. This is my little baby boy. And this is me, his proud mother, wishing him Happy Birthday.
I love you with all that I am, sweet potato.