They took him away after that initial meeting. They always do. They take him away with the promise that they'll bring him right back. They just need to do this, and one of these, and some of that.
They wheel you to another room, your now slightly jiggly belly, empty. And you sit and wait, alone, because your husband has went with the new baby, torn between staying with the woman who just birthed his first offspring and following the helpless offspring. The shiny new offspring always wins.
And you wait. Patiently at first, because you want him to be safe, to be healthy, to be thoroughly checked out. But then you start to worry. And you start to feel a little lonely. And then it turns into an all-out panic.
And finally, after two hours, a nurse wheels your shiny new offspring back to you, followed by a giddy if not exhausted dad. And she drones on and on about feeding and diapering and poops and umbilical cord care...and it's all you can do to not rip her face off and demand she give you the baby. NOW.
And then she finally shuts up and hands over the goods. And he's there. Warm and pink and soft and blond. So much blond hair. And you finally get to nuzzle the sweet, soft spot of his neck and examine every toenail and fold, and get to whisper his name into his ear, and you break into sobs.
And when your husband asks if everything's okay, you nod and assure him you're fine, excellent in fact, you just missed the baby.
What you don't tell him is that it's more than missed, it was an ache. A frantic, panicky ache. But now that he's here, and you have him in your arms, everything in the whole world is just fine.
***
Big D turned eight years old yesterday.
For some reason, all day long, while I baked cupcakes and wrapped presents and anticipated the look on his face at chocolate chocolate chip frosting, that frantic, panicky feeling would come. He's eight, well on his way to being taller than I am, smarter than a kid should be, still has a ton of blond hair, and I adore all of that.
But I think I miss that warm and soft and pink baby something fierce.
Today you turn three. I've been doing that thing all day where I go, "And this time three years ago, I was at my weekly doctor's appointment or driving to the hospital..." Right now, at this time three years ago, I was probably still in the process of answering all of those admittance questions, hanging out in my hospital gown, a bundle of nerves and excitement. You were born a little after 10 PM. An easy labor and delivery, all pink (and a little cheesy) and adorable.
You've changed so much in the past year. You've perfected screaming. You've learned that by screaming, almost anyone will do anything you want to make you stop. You know how to count to eight. I no longer have to buy diapers for two babies. You finally had enough hair to cut! You know how to use those dimples and blue eyes to their full advantage.
You adore your brothers. Big D can make you giggle faster than anything, and Boobers is a constant source of practicing all your empathy and mothering skills. I know that if Boobers needs anything, you'll be first in line to help. As the only baby girl, you're equally adored, and will probably always be the go-between.
You had a blast at your party on Saturday. You reveled in the fact that everyone in the room was singing to you, and you had enough steam to blow out all three candles by yourself. You were so proud of yourself, and I was of you too.
I adore you. I love the conversations we have on a daily basis. Like, "You have to work today? But I don't want you to! I neeeeed you here!" I adore your screaminess, your fierce determination, your utter stubbornness, your dimples and your crazy blond curls. You're my only, my most wanted, my lovely baby girl. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mom
We partied hard yesterday. The weather was gorgeous, the kids had fun, and I have officially thrown my last first birthday party. Unless I get to help with one of my grandkid's. But I can barely handle the fact that I have a one-year-old, so let's not go there.
Pictures? Okay!
The Cake. The dark specks? That's what happens when you don't do a crumb coat first.
Boober's very own little cake.
First taste. The warm up. The red splotches are Fifth Disease. Nice for your birthday, no?
He enjoyed the cake. Pretty much that whole piece. We stopped him before he exploded blue everywhere.
He's cute, no?
So it's done. I have a lovely brown-eyed toddler now. Excuse me while I shuffle off to bathroom to sniffle a little.
I spent my Mother's Day at K's nephew's birthday party. This was after I'd opened my presents though: a box of chocolates from Big D (He offered to eat the raspberry cream ones for me because he knows I hate raspberry. Selfless, that kid.); a cake from Smella (She wanted to buy me party hats, but the husband steered her a little.); a CD from the husband (Spoon. The album title cracks me up.); and slobbery kisses and probably a poopy diaper from Boobers (What? He's only 11 ¾ months old.).
My mom? I baked her a cherry pie. And the sister and I went in on a gift card together so the mom could buy lots and lots of cookbooks. The mom adores pies and cookbooks.
It rained and was cold all day Mother's Day, but we had fun. I mean, who doesn't love a good face-slamming cake fight amongst adults during a seven-year-old's birthday party? And during musical chairs when a dad yells out to his five-year-old who can't find an empty chair, "You're out, ya loser!"? I mean, that's what makes parties for me.
K's family? A little whacked.
I got lots of good ideas to use for Boober's party coming up this Sunday. Like after you've grilled your hotdogs, make sure you put them on the styrofoam tray that the raw hamburger meat came in. Yum-O! Birthday cake, ice cream, and a touch of E. coli!
I'm still sorry I forgot the camera.
Today the husband turns 32. I've known him for eleven whole years. I met him in February 1997, a couple of months before he turned 21. Since we met on the Internet (which is a whole 'nother story), we really only communicated through IRC, email and the occasional phone call back then. He went out that night to party hard, and I remember being a little worried for him and a little jealous and sad that I couldn't be there. I adored him even after only knowing him for two months, but since it seems a little, I don't know, impossible to adore someone you've never even seen in the flesh, I kept that to myself. But he came back safe and sound if not a little hung-over, and we eventually moved in together, married, and have celebrated all birthdays together since (I'll have to write out the whole sordid tale later).
So 32 isn't one of those huge milestone birthdays, but it makes me think of his 21st and how long ago that was and how stupid and young we both were and how I absolutely wanted to be with him but didn't want to tell him and scare the hell out of him, because once again, two months over a computer, blah, blah, blah. I still adore him, but luckily, I don't have to be scared to tell him now.
We took the kids to a friend's son's birthday party last night. It's an indoor place with tons of those inflatable bouncy type germ infestations. No one came home with a concussion, just a sugar high and bad hair. The germ manifestations are yet to be seen.
My baby girl went down the tallest slide by herself. I was scared she'd get up there and chicken out and I'd have to send Big D up to rescue her, but she did it! And then promptly announced "AGAIN!"
