Thursday, February 10, 2005

Letter to my newborn son

You did not want to come out. Your due date came and went. My stomach continued to grow larger, but you were still not coming out. Daddy and I tried those silly things people suggest — like driving on a bumpy road, eating spicy food, and taking long walks — but nothing worked. I couldn’t even spur on false labor. So we waited. And we waited. And we waited some more. Finally, my doctor decided to induce labor, so I checked into the hospital and prepared to meet you. But after almost 24 hours of labor, you still weren’t coming out. They had to go in and get you instead. 

I was groggy from all the medication, and I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to wake up enough to bond with you when you were born. But the moment they placed you on my chest, I was wide-awake. You were bundled from head to toe, and the only part of your precious little body I could see was your face. I was prepared for it to be scrunched up and slimy and puffy from the trauma of birth. But it wasn’t. It was perfectly round and pink. You stared up at me with big blue eyes. Daddy said that you had my button nose, and your delicate little lips made the perfect O shape. And all I could think about was how beautiful you were. In those 30 seconds in the operating room — our first 30 seconds together — I stared at my beautiful son, caressing your cheek with my finger and marveling at what a miracle your dad, and God, and I had created.
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