It was an uphill battle to get pregnant and stay pregnant. I never fully let myself acknowledge that I was going to have a healthy, full term baby. When it came time for my gazillionth ultrasound, the one to determine the gender of the baby, I lowered the wall just a fraction of an inch.
I actually researched ultrasound pictures because I wanted to see if I could test myself. Yup, I knew the little lines meant a girl, and if my heart would admit it to my brain, I wanted a girl. I saw that little heart beating on the screen above me and I was transfixed. That little bleep bleep consumed all of my attention with its beauty, its life. I forgot to look for the two little lines at first because of it. Then I saw them.
We were having a girl.
She would be the seventh in the fam. I wasn’t going to win the first boy bet that has been standing since the year 2000 and that was fine with me. The day she was born was a flurry of activity around us and inside me. She was unhappy with the doctor’s decision to choose her birthdate. A c-section was ordered and I cannot retell it in minute detail. I remember odd little snippets of time. I remember the assisting doctor estimate she would weigh over 9 pounds, he was
crazy right. I remember Brian peeking over the curtain and turning a little bit gray, wishing he hadn’t. I remember them bringing her over to me and I remember crying.
This is where the world of mothers hates me. Where people cannot fathom my thinking. I cried because she was real and here. I cried because my heart just burst open wide after being so closed up for so long. I cried because I was so happy. Remember that when you continue reading.
I also cried because my little girl looked like her grandpa, who is decidedly NOT a girl. She was crinkly and had this really dark tuft of what could be curly hair. Her eyes were all squinty and her face was swollen. She was in fact nine pounds, four ounces and twenty two and a half inches long. She did not look like a little newborn. The physician that checked her out later that week would say in jest, “Oh, I see. Been here two months?” She was so not what the cute little alien in my ulstrasound was meant to look like. I loved her with my whole heart. But I cried. I blame the hormones. But in all reality, it was a week or so before her face and head simmered down a bit and that dark tuft of hair was not so dark after all.
I had my real, live, right here, not a figment of my imagination, biggest stealer of my heart right in front of me.
And I cried.