3 Months

This morning was difficult, love.  I was so, so tired from a difficult night and so, so frustrated I couldn't get you to nap, and I cried and cried in the shower from the sheer exhaustion.  I also cried because I realized that this morning was your three month birthday, and I couldn't enjoy your three month loveliness because I was so distracted by fatigue.

I've spent today not marveling at how quickly three months have passed (which they have) or how much you've changed in three months (which you have) but reflecting on the day you were born, feeling tearful at what a perfect day it was.

I didn't plan to have you by caesarean.  We planned a natural birth: unmedicated labor and delivery the old-fashioned way.  We took classes to that effect.  We practiced relaxation exercises.  We packed a hospital bag with labor in mind.  But then we discovered, late in pregnancy, that you were breech and had likely been breech for some time.  We tried all sorts of interventions to get you to turn before your due date, but nothing worked.  Consequently, we were scheduled for a caesarean the morning before your due date.

In the week before your birth, we got everything ready.  We cleaned the house.  We stocked the pantry.  We cooked meals and put them away in the freezer.  We arranged for care for the dog.  We scheduled family to visit.  All with this sneaky suspicion that you might decide to come ahead of schedule and throw off all our now carefully calibrated plans.

But that didn't happen.

We woke early on January 15 and drove to the hospital in cold, dark silence.  At the hospital, I was prepped for surgery and walked to the operating room a few minutes ahead of schedule.  I was incredibly nervous.  But once the spinal anesthetic was administered, my lower body grew warm and numb, and my nerves subsided.  The doctors and nurses were friendly and upbeat, and throughout the surgery, your dad sat next to my head and chatted with me.

And then they said I'd be seeing you in a few seconds.  And then you were here, small and wet and screaming, and they held you over the partition so I could see your face.  Your dad watched as they examined you and cleaned out your lungs; then, once you were given the all-clear, they placed you on my chest for a few brief moments so I could hold and touch you.  I remember you were all legs and arms, right up around my neck - so warm and soft and tiny.  All the doctors and nurses said you were so cute, and you were: no wizened, old man face for you.  Your features were precise and tiny and finely carved.  A beautiful baby.

You went with your dad to the nursery so they could monitor you for a bit, and the next hour was possibly the longest of my life.  The doctors finished the surgery, and I spent some time in a recovery room with a nurse, waiting for what seemed like an eternity until I could hold and nurse you.  I was groggy from the medication but knew that's all I wanted.

Finally, they brought you to me, and holding you for that first time was perfect.  You were perfect.  You latched almost immediately.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, since the medication made me groggy and sleepy, but I'll never forget that first hour you were in the world.