The Last First Birthday

Being a mother was one thing I had wanted my entire life.  And yet, when I stared at those two pink lines nestled so innocently in the tiny circle on the white plastic stick upon which I had just peed, my world suddenly fell apart.

My husband and I had two beautiful children, a three and almost one year old.  I had loved every moment of being a mom. I cherished each pregnancy and birth and infant stage, even with the nausea and pain and anxiety it brought.  My life filled with meaning and purpose as my world, once filled with thoughts of professional success and international travel, constricted around these two tiny humans.

But my husband and I were older parents and the baby years had taken their toll on us.  We were exhausted from raising two kids two years apart.  Stress and fatigue overwhelmed us as we tried to deal with breastfeeding, nap schedules, toddler tantrums, potty training, late nights and early mornings.

As our youngest turned nine months, we could smell the changing winds.  We could taste the freedom of no diapers, of days which wouldn’t be planned around naps or outings that didn’t involve car seats and strollers.  We began to dream of family vacations where we could hang out with the other adults, adults whose children were running around unsupervised because they could all swim instead of spending time in the kiddie pool or sitting at home by ourselves because of napping babies.  We knew we were still years away from the easier days, but—like a warm breeze on winter’s day—we could feel those days coming.  And we were ready for them.

Surprise

And then, for no specific reason, I took a pregnancy test.  A routine check.  More quickly than I knew possible came those two pink lines, stronger and darker and more pink than anything I’d ever seen before.  I was undeniably, one hundred percent, without-a-doubt pregnant.

Dreams of school days and lighter packing vanished in an instant.  Shock, disbelief, and total numbness flooded over me as those two pink lines developed in front of my eyes.  I felt like the fragile ice I was stumbling over during the daily grind of parenthood was shattering under my feet and that I’d finally succumb to the waves of overflowing obligations that seemed as though they were daily trying to swallow me whole.

Something deep inside me told me this was wonderful, gently reminded me this was everything I had always wanted.  The voice inside said, “You’ll love this.  This is a blessing.  This is a gift.”  But it didn’t feel that way.

The only thing I could understand at that moment was the acute hardships of child-raising.  Heavy tears flowed down my cheeks as I thought of the challenges of each stage, every stress, anxiety, and fear that would only increase my worries and rob me of the small amount of sleep I was currently getting.  My heart broke over the burdens I’d have to carry, burdens I felt completely ill-equipped to handle at this stage in life.  I wanted to be happy, but I couldn’t.  All I could see was something that would demand all of me when there was almost nothing left to give.

Love

And then, at a short eleven weeks into pregnancy, I felt life flutter inside me.  In an instant, love exploded.  In that moment the invisible void where she had been missing was filled.  A void I didn’t even know existed until it was filled by her: my precious baby.

Trepidation turned to peace, dread to excitement as our family would grow by one more perfectly unique life who would add something we couldn’t predict—but would no longer be able to live without—once she arrived.

As her birth approached, so did anxiety.  Who was going to watch our other two kids when I went into labor?  Just a few weeks away from her delivery date, the OB made it excruciatingly clear that she was likely to come quickly.  “Run, don’t walk,” they told me.  I thought they were crazy.

Still, I lined up every sister and sister-in-law and friend who was available, strategically planning their visits before and after her due date.  But they were all moms themselves with busy schedules, only available over each successive weekend.

I’d spend Monday through Thursday praying, “Please don’t come, please don’t come!”  I’d hold my breath until Friday and the arrival of the next visitor, at which point the prayer became, “Come now, come now!” Until Sunday night, when the prayer switched again.

My due date—and first guest—came and went and still, no baby.

The weekdays dragged on, an eternity until the next babysitter arrived.  A decade of waiting held within the space of four days.

Arrival

Friday arrived once more and with it came my sister.  Sweet relief again flooded over me.  “Come, baby, come.”

Just before midnight, a pop plucked me out of sleep.  The contractions weren’t fast, but hard, like waking up to a train ramming my stomach.

I crept into the darkness of my sister’s room.  “It’s time,” I whispered.  A smile spread over her sleepy, barely comprehending face.  “I’ll be praying,” she whispered back.  And into the darkness we went.

My husband drove carefully, knowing we had plenty of time.  I told him not to park right in front of the delivery area, but in the main parking.  I didn’t want him to have to move the car.  Nausea began to haunt my steps, but I ignored it.  There was plenty of time until this baby came.  There had to be.  I’d just woken up.

As we approached the nurses desk, my husband asked for us to go straight to a delivery room as that is what my doctors had told me I’d need.

“Everyone goes through triage,” they told us.

“The doctors told us we need a room,” my husband pleaded.

“I don’t see her on the direct admit list,” they countered.

With another contraction racking my body, I finally cried, “Just put me in any room!”

“The triage room is just across the hall,” they said.

I waddled over and set my heaving body down on the paper-covered bed in the dimly lit room.  It contained all the usual fetal monitoring things, blood-pressure cuffs and chords and other medical equipment, but no person except the two of us.

One final contraction washed over me, pain wracking and overtaking my body.  Get help, I told Ryan.  This was happening.  Now.

Nurses flew into the room, someone ripped off my pants and shoes.  A baby, birthed on my jacket, was laid on my chest, still covered by the t-shirt I had waddled in wearing, just forty-five minutes after I’d woken up to that pop.

“You were right,” they said with rather sheepish smiles.

Big, deep eyes stared up at me from under her long, dark lashes.  Her tiny, impossibly chubby cheeks, turned-up nose and baby chin were all surrounded by a surprising crown of wispy reddish hair.  A soft, teeny hand wrapped itself around one of my fingers as we snuggled in the wee hours of the night, just the two of us.  My precious, unexpected baby who I fell for long before she exited my body and entered this world independent on her own.  And, knowing she would likely be my last, I reveled in every snuggle, every baby coo, every chubby thigh and wrist roll.  I ogled over every smile, laugh, and shared nap in the rocking chair.  I cherished her babyhood in a way I hadn’t with the older two.  This would be the last first smile and word and step.

Invasion

The flu,  COVID, RSV, and every other respiratory virus imaginable invaded our home with a vengeance over the next twelve months.  Steam showers became a nightly routine, even for my two month old. Humidifiers were a staple in every room.  Our kids were bathed in Vick’s.

All I wanted was for my children to get bigger so that I wouldn’t worry over every cough or sneeze.  So that each new infection didn’t bring struggled, distressed breathing and sleepless nights where I spent the eternal dark hours praying my babies would keep breathing.  I yearned for the days when a cold simply meant a cold and not an urgent care run, two ER visits, and an overnight stay at the hospital.

The year plodded on and we watched our baby grow.  With every milestone met, we celebrated.  We joyfully gave away, sold, or threw out each now-unnecessary piece of baby paraphernalia that had cluttered our house and garage for nearly the last half decade because “we weren’t quite sure if we were done.”  Gone were the infant clothes, the bath chair and Bumbo and breastfeeding pillows.  We celebrated that the season of bearing children, of newborn accessories and clutter, was over.

Birthday

And then—today—she turned one.  The day I had looked forward to since I found out I was pregnant had finally arrived.  Now, sitting in this moment, despair crashed over me.  I sat cross-legged on our greyish carpet, feeling that—with each fold of tiny pink socks, little footie jammies, and flowered onesies—a chapter of a book was closing.  I could barely lift my arms to keep folding, could barely keep sitting.  I wanted to curl into a ball in the middle of that pile of clothes and not move, too burdened with emotions to stay upright.  The thing I’d been looking forward to for the last eighteen months suddenly gutted me so badly I couldn’t stop the tears flowing down my cheeks, couldn’t get up off the floor of my bedroom.  I had been waiting for this year to be over from the moment it started.  But now that it had arrived, I was devastated.  The last year had been total chaos, but my heart wouldn’t stop telling me how much I wanted it back.

And that is when I heard that small voice once more.  “This was wonderful.  This was beautiful.  This was everything you had wanted.” The voice that has whispered, “You’ll love this,” was right.  This last year had been a beautiful gift in spite of the chaos through which we had survived.

In that moment, my idea of parenting transformed.  I used to think parenting was a constant exercise in holding your breath until whatever crazy, chaotic phase was over so you could finally start enjoying life—instead of just surviving it.  But what I suddenly realized was how much the highs and lows will come all at once.  If we’re going to enjoy the good stuff, we need to know those beautiful moments will happen right in the middle of the chaos.  And, when we finally make it through whatever challenging phase our children are in, the end of that phase will simultaneously bring the end of what made that time so special, so irreplaceable.

My baby’s birthday has taught me that it’s okay to be a bit off balance.  It’s okay to love a “phase” and to not be able to wait for it to be done.  We can feel overwhelmingly blessed by what we have and simultaneously thankful when it’s over.  And then miss it when it’s gone.  Recognizing that fact might make it a little easier to find the beauty in whatever formidable moment of parenting we’re in.

The same thing that brought me what I wanted took what I so tenderly cherished.  The day was beautiful.  And despairing.  It was happiness and tragedy, all rolled into a birthday.  The last first birthday.