Today is the eleventh birthday of my firstborn. It has been such a wonder to watch her grow and learn these past years. She amazes me daily. She is a very talented artist (which makes me crazy jealous), a natural musician (she gets that from her mama), a whiz at math (she definitely doesn't get that from me!), a caring big sister, and a sympathetic friend. More than one of her teachers has described her as a "happy-go-lucky" girl. I am so proud to be her mother.
I would assume that it's quite natural for a mother to reflect upon each of her children's births on their birthdays. Several years ago, I attended the New Jersey Writing Project of Texas, a three week course devoted to making writers out of teachers, and I wrote a piece about the story of her birth. I pulled it out today and reread it, and I decided that now would be a perfect time to share it with her. Here is that story:
The Miracle That You Are
You woke up last night around midnight. I dragged myself out of my warm bed and through the dark house into your nursery. I silently cursed Mother Nature for awakening you with her thunder and lightning.
You were sitting up, rubbing your eyes, and I reached in the crib to comfort you. Our hands brushed one another as we blindly searched for your pacifier, lost among the sea of blankets.
I tenderly picked you up, and I could feel your body relax as you nestled your head into my shoulder. I sat down and began to rock slowly back and forth, back and forth. My fingers twirled and swirled through your soft, down curls, and I considered the miracle that is you. You’ve only been on this earth for sixteen short months, but you’ve been with me for an eternity, quietly waiting in the wings until it was time to make your grand entrance.
Everything you do is done on your terms alone, and your birth was no exception. I awoke one chilly Wednesday morning and struggled to roll myself out of bed. When I did rise, you had a surprise waiting for me. I yelled to your dad that my water had broken and rushed to call your nana, my doctor, and to find a substitute. My mind was a hurricane of conflicting thoughts and feelings. I was partially in denial that by the end of the day, I would be a mother. I was in shock and awe that your birth, which I had been anticipating my entire life, would be imminent. I was nauseous by the uncertainty of what might lay before us.
You weren’t due for five more weeks! Didn’t you know that you didn’t have any clothes yet? The car sea wasn’t buckled securely in the back of the Honda. It wasn’t even out of the box yet! And didn’t you know that I was just really beginning to enjoy having you inside me to share all of my innermost secrets?
I took a shower while your father frantically packed my bag that I was intending to pack that coming weekend. I traced the paths of water droplets flowing down my bulging belly and wondered about you. I would soon meet you, and all of my questions would finally be answered. Were you a boy or a girl? Would you look like me or like Daddy? What color was your hair? Did you even have hair?
I said a quick prayer to God. I had been praying this exact prayer every day of my pregnancy. “Dear Lord, please let the baby be healthy and have a long, joyous life. Amen. P.S. Please give this baby a normal-sized head.”
I said a quick prayer to God. I had been praying this exact prayer every day of my pregnancy. “Dear Lord, please let the baby be healthy and have a long, joyous life. Amen. P.S. Please give this baby a normal-sized head.”
I felt the first painful contraction while the car was rounding the curve from I-30 to 75 downtown. As we walked into the hospital, your dad, ever the comedian, was teasing me about the trail of amniotic fluid that showed my path across the parking lot.
Everything that happened on January 16, 2002, seemed to be happening simultaneously in slow motion and in warp speed. There were the dilation exams, the enema, the Pitocin, the vomiting, the epidural, the worries about a possible c-section, and finally, it was time to push. Dad made one final bet with Dr. Jordan that you were a boy, and I secretly prayed that you weren’t. After demanding the TV channel be changed to something other than “Wheel of Fortune,” I began to push.
At 7:12 pm, I felt my abdomen cave in as you entered the world. Dr. Jordan exclaimed, “It’s a girl!” I closed my eyes and smiled. Daddy cut the cord and Dr. Jordan brought you to my side so I could see your precious, perfect face.
“Oh my God, Tim! She looks just like you,” were the first words I spoke as a mother.
I watched the NICU nurses check you over and pronounce you tiny but healthy, all 5 pounds, 2 ounces of you. I could see your miniature fist extending over the side of the bassinet as if you were reaching for me, reassuring me that you were right there, wanting to be held, just as much as I needed to hold you.
You never cried this entire time.
The nurse placed you in my arms. I checked you over and marveled at the fact that you had no eyelashes or eyebrows. I gently caressed the satin skin of your minute, balled fist. I thought you would curl your slender dancer’s fingers around mine, but instead, you opened your hand wide. I traced the microscopic lines and rivers crossing your hand, and speculated about what life would bring you. You had the absolute softest skin I had felt. I wondered how long your skin would stay so unweathered by life’s elements.
Your blue eyes focused on mine, sending an electric spark through me. I instantly felt that recognition of meeting a long, lost friend on a crowded street. I knew everything about you even though this was the first time I held you.
“Hello, Kaitlyn Elizabeth. I’m your mommy,” I introduced myself, though no introduction was needed.
Last night when the rain finally stopped, I carefully placed you back in your crib, covered your growing body, and thanked God for the miracle that you are.
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| Culmo, Family of Three |
Happy eleventh birthday, sweet girl! We love you so much.
