On the day you were born.

You weren’t due for two more weeks. I was still working and not planning to start maternity leave until I went into labor. The car seat still sat on the floor of our bedroom, the hospital bag not yet packed. 

Then came a phone call while I sat in my office cubicle. I answered and heard the voice of my doctor on the other end. My lab work was back and a potentially dangerous complication was confirmed. “You need to head to the hospital this evening so we can start an induction.”

I burst into tears. I wasn’t ready. I was scared. Your dad struggled to install the car seat in our tiny Ford Fiesta while the rain drizzled down and I tried to wrap my head around the fact that you were going to be in our arms very soon. 

All night, I tried to sleep but couldn’t. I stayed up praying and filled with nervous excitement. Early the next morning, my water broke and things started progressing very quickly. I turned down pain meds but had no idea how horrendous the pain was about to get with a steady drip of pitocin speeding things along. 

It took five or so hours to go from that point to 10cm and three more excruciating hours of one intense contraction on top of another, pushing with no progress happening. My body was nowhere near ready and did not “do what it was made to do,” like so many people had told me to expect. I felt so much unnecessary shame for that. My doctor finally arrived, took one look and said “c-section, now.” There was no time to think and I was desperate for the pain to stop. I just wanted you to be ok. God was so faithful to see us through a difficult pregnancy and labor and to bring you safely into this world.

We got to the operating room and they were having a hard time placing the needle in my back. I remember my doctor saying if they couldn’t get it on the next attempt, I was going to have to go under general anesthesia and that meant not being awake for your birth. We prayed and thankfully, they got it with the next attempt.

Finally, relief, as the spinal took effect and most of my body went numb. I remember that my arms started shaking uncontrollably and my teeth couldn’t stop chattering while I lay there feeling like a failure for not being able to give birth the “natural way.” I was so exhausted and loopy that I didn’t even realize when you were out. A nurse told me to look back in the corner of the room and I saw you there, being checked on by the medical team, your little face scrunched up and not yet crying. 

My first words were “oh my gosh, Jordan, he’s a real baby.” You were no longer a black and white image on the ultrasound screen, not just a heartbeat thumping on the monitor. Your kicks and rolls had exited the womb. You were here, in the flesh. My real baby… my son. Your sweet newborn cries filled the room and they swaddled you and brought you over to me. I couldn’t hold you but I remember a nurse holding you next to my face while I tried to touch your little cheek and comfort you. Over the hospital intercom, a little lullaby played to signify that a baby had just been born.

I was really a mom and nothing was ever the same again. Everything in my life changed when you became part of it. 

From that day, you’ve been my little sidekick, my mini-me, my best buddy. You were my chubby, smiling baby. My giggly, cautious, cuddly toddler. My curious, creative, active preschooler. My smart, shy kindergartner. And currently, my sweet, sensitive, athletic grade schooler.

You helped me find my confidence as a mom and gave me a whole new purpose in life. What a joy and privilege to watch you grow. What a sweet thing it is to watch you learning and becoming more independent all the time. What a blessing to my heart to hear from others what a good friend and student and teammate you are. What gratitude I have that God chose me to be your mom. Now here we are, 9 years in, halfway to adulthood… and I’ll keep loving all the future versions of you while holding these old versions of you near and dear to my heart.