Two years ago this morning, I sat in an oversized hospital bed with butterflies — and a baby — in my stomach.
Wearing a gown upon my round body, I applied lipstick and brushed my hair, preparing for those post-labor pictures that a first-time-mommy dreams about.
I sucked on ice chips and laughed nervously. The excitement was overwhelming: he’s going to be here soon, he’s going to be here soon, I thought.
Friends and family poured in the room. The epidural-induced calm allowed me to chat and play hostess, bound to the bed where my legs were numb. We videotaped and made jokes and all wondered when he would arrive and what he would be like. The first child. The first grandchild. The first baby amongst our group of friends. He was on his way!
And then it was time. The nurses rushed everyone out and Matt and I locked eyes: showtime. My body was no longer mine to control as this baby was coming, whether I liked it or not. Luckily, I was ready.
They cheered me on, told me I was doing great, encouraged me to push, now wait, now push. And soon, my tough husband had tears streaming from his eyes.
He had arrived. Our little human. Half me, half Matt, but all his own.
They placed him upon my body and I wept. He squirmed and whimpered. He was so perfect. And he was mine. And I became a Mommy.
Then he grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. And before I knew it, he was two. And before I know it, he will be twenty — and I will still be Mommy. Or maybe just Mom.
So, I hold on to now. I celebrate his milestones and his unique spirit. And I remember that day, two years ago this morning, when he arrived and changed our world.
Happy Birthday, baby boy!