07.08.09 :: 8:05 am
Happy birthday, small one! Today you are one year old!
This event has totally crept up on me and I am still not used to the idea that you’ve been in our lives for an entire year. 365 days of you! It’s so crazy because I look at the pictures of you when you were a few hours old and you still look that way to me.
You share a birthday with Beck, in other news.
And on this day in 1776, the Declaration of Independence was first publicly read. Just so you know.
I guess I should tell you (if you don’t already know) just how badly I wanted you to begin with. So badly, that after a few months of trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant, I marched into Dr. B’s office in Santa Monica and asked her if I was insane to want medical help to get the process going faster. And she, being the wise woman she is, said to me: “There is no right amount of time to be trying. If you want to try for six months, that’s fine. If you want to be pregnant this month, that’s fine too.”
And Oliver, a few weeks later I stared at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test and felt relief and great comedic timing.
Being pregnant was OK for the most part. I’d say between months 2 and 6 were a walk in the park. After that? Not so much. By the week of July 1st, I was feeling trapped and squished in a body that barely resembled my own. The feeling was like being under pressure while under water.
On the 8th, after eating a box of Cheese Nips, I went into labor. I guess you thought you’d better exit ASAP before I tried stuffing you with anything else.
Finally, a man helped us get to where we needed to go, all the while I was screaming for a wheelchair. I honestly thought you were going to drop out of me right there in the hallway, in front of that poor tour group of pregnant women.
I distinctly remember panting, “Don’t worry, ladies, this is part of the tour.”
Finally, they wheeled me into a room, got me into the hospital gown, hooked my belly up to the monitors and shot me full of something glorious to stop the contractions and pain until Dr. B arrived.
Dr. B arrived and asked “What are you doing here? Didn’t I just see you this morning?”
The surgery was underway and I distinctly remember thinking it was way too peaceful and decidedly non-hectic in there for the reality of what was happening to my midsection.
Quite suddenly, I felt my intestines being painlessly stretched up to the ceiling like strands of laffy taffy.
And then a few seconds later, you cried your now familiar cry.
And now look at you. Terrorizing the dog, reaching for doorknobs, climbing up and down the sofa, clapping, running and turning the pages in your books.
I am so happy to be your mom. I am so happy that you are who you are and that you and I are like so much peas and carrots.
You are such a sweet little boy that it’s almost unbelievable to me that I had a hand in it.
It is a source of great comfort knowing that this love we’ve got will never ever change. When I am 100 and you are 68, I will love you this much. I will always.
The most amazing part is how I actually want to live to 100 so that I can spend as much time as possible with you.
What a world.