Life As a New Mom: Happy Half Birthday Edition

My little girl is now six months old. Celebrate with me by reading her birth story. It's nothing gross, but  I'll give you fair warning: be prepared for excessive and intense amounts of emotions. ALL THE EMOTIONS. 

It seems to strange to even be typing this, but my baby is now SIX MONTHS old. The day she was born seems like only yesterday, so this weekend was an emotional roller-coaster.    I was boxing up a few things Dolores has already outgrown when I stumbled across the outfit she was wearing the day I brought her home from the hospital.

I thought about how tiny she was and how big she is now... about how much I love watching her grow from a little baby into a small person... and, as always, about how much I love her--a love that can only be described as heartbreaking, gut-wrenching love. Not to get all Jerry MacGuire on y'all, but she completes me. Nothing makes me happier than being a mother to my Dolores Anne.

I wrote her birth story a few months ago and have had it saved for this occasion. It's something I plan on reading to her every birthday. I share it with you, because it is (without a doubt) the best thing that ever happened to me.

The Story of Us

Dear Dolores,

You were born at 11:46 am on Sunday, the second day of September 2012, at Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama, after exactly 37 weeks of pregnancy. You were small—19 inches long and just 5 pounds and 10 ounces—but my love for you was (and is) so great that the moment I first heard your tiny cry brought the world to a halt. I have tucked that precious memory away deep in my heart because I treasure those moments beyond measure: our first cuddle, the first time my lips kissed your sweet plump cheeks, the first time we looked into one another’s eyes and saw a love that will last a lifetime—the first time I held you, my daughter, my sweet pea, my pet. I want to tell you about that day—about the journey that led me to you.

This, my girl, is the story of us.

I never thought I would get to be a Mommy. I will tell you more about why I felt that way when you’re older, but I was sick and didn’t think that I would ever be a Mom. In fact, I was told by several doctors that my body just wouldn’t let me have a baby. (We proved them wrong; didn’t we?)

I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday night in late January. I took a test at home and remember staring at it in anticipation of one pink line, the indicator of negative result. I glanced away and then looked back a few seconds later: there were TWO pink lines. TWO. I held that test in disbelief (and shock) that melted into the most intense joy I had ever known. Tears were streaming down my face when I told your Daddy that I was pregnant. I fell asleep cuddled next to him that night and dreamed about the day I would get to meet you.

I carried you with me for 37 weeks. I remember the first time I saw your heart beating—I had an ultrasound on a Friday in February. You looked like a tiny bean on that big computer screen, and inside that bean was an even smaller speck that blinked back at me. It was your heart, beating at the rate of 154 beats per minute. I cried. I was so happy.

In April, I found out that you were a girl. I had another ultrasound at the doctor’s office and left that beautiful spring morning knowing I would have a daughter. I remember seeing you kick and squirm. My doctor, Dr. Bill, said you were a perfectly healthy—and active!—baby girl. I called your Daddy that day to tell him the news and although I couldn’t see his face, his voice let me know he too was crying tears of joy. We were going to have a baby girl! You were due to be born on September 23, 2012.

As the days grew longer and much, much hotter, you grew in my tummy. In May your tiny flutters became sharp kicks that I loved to feel throughout the day. In June we had a special ultrasound—my gift to your Dad for Father’s Day. This special ultrasound let us see your face for the first time, and your Daddy and I held hands as we saw you, our baby, our Dolly, on the big screen in front of us.

In July, things got tough. I became sick, and Dr. Bill told me I needed to stay in bed to make sure you could keep growing safe and sound in my tummy. I was put in the hospital a few times and we thought you would arrive dangerously early. I thank God every day that you did not. I went to see Dr. Bill weekly for ultrasounds and special tests to see if you were getting sick, too. But you, my strong girl, you held on. I had an appointment on Thursday, August 30; Dr. Bill told me that day he had decided you would be born Thursday, September 6, 2012.

I thought I had a week to prepare for your arrival. That Friday and Saturday were so special to me—I knew the little kicks, wiggles, and rolls I felt in my belly would soon come to an end. I stretched out in bed to savor our last days together. I watched my tummy move as you squirmed about inside. I sang to you, read to you, counted the times you hiccupped. I couldn’t wait to meet you, and I didn’t have to.

Early Sunday morning I woke up with a sharp pain in my tummy. I thought it was nothing and tried to go back to sleep, but the pain woke me up again and again. I got out of bed around 6:30; I soon began to realize that you were on your way. I woke your Daddy up and told him to get ready to head to the hospital. I took a shower, gathered my things, and we were out the door.

As we drove the Jeep to Birmingham that sunny morning, the pains in my tummy grew stronger and stronger. When we arrived at Saint Vincent’s, we waited in the hallway. Almost all the rooms were full; so many babies had been born under the early September Blue Moon. Your dad and I were taken back to a triage room after what felt like an (extremely painful) eternity. A doctor came by to check on me and after her exam informed me that you were indeed on your way—I was in labor!

I was put in a room, and Daddy and I began to call our friends and family. We had to let them know that you were making your way into the world! Nurses and doctors kept checking on us, and they soon told me that you were getting sick. It was then decided that you would be born via caesarean section (a special operation that helps babies be born very quickly). I was so scared, baby, but your Daddy held my hand and helped me to stay strong as we were whisked away to an operating room.

Doctor Lassiter performed the surgery. I couldn’t see anything, and my mind could only process one thought: Please let my Dolly be okay. The seconds before your birth stretched out into what felt like years of anxiety. Please let my Dolly be okay. I knew that hearing your crying would mean you were healthy and breathing just fine. I was oh-so-very worried, pet, that being sick during my pregnancy would make you sick, too. Please let my Dolly be okay. I looked up at your Daddy’s face, and he didn’t have to tell me what he was thinking, because I could see it in his eyes: Please let my Dolly be okay.

And then we heard you.

At 11:46am, you made your way into our world and emitted the most beautiful, perfect sound we had ever heard: you were crying.

And then we were crying.

You, Dolores Anne Brunson, had been born and were crying at the top of your healthy little lungs. Doctor Lassiter held you up so I could see you—all 19 inches and 5 pounds and 10 ounces of you. She held you up to my face and said, “Hi, Mommy!” as my eyes saw the most lovely pink cheeks, blue eyes, and full head of brown hair I had ever seen. There you were, in front of me at last. I saw you and knew I was your Mommy and Will was your Daddy.

And then we were a family.

The nurses and doctors finished my surgery and made sure that we were both healthy, and then we were off to room 208 in the second floor of Saint Vincent’s Women and Children’s Center. We were wheeled to an elevator, and you were placed in my arms. You blinked and looked right at me, right through me to my very soul—as if you were feeling the same wonder my heart was too small to fully contain. Your perfect blue eyes looked into mine.

And then I said, “Hello.”

I don’t remember how many times I kissed you that day, but I know it was more than most would care to count. I don’t remember anything else but you: the rosy hue of your cheeks, your tiny fingers and toes, the full roundness of your little belly, the way you smelled, the way your body moved when I held you next to me for a feeding. I stared at you in constant amazement of you, in awe of your perfection.

Daddy and I held you that day and knew that nothing would ever be the same. We realized nothing would or could ever mean as much to us as our love for you.

And then we were us.

Always,
Mommy