There are times when I open my eyes in the morning, during that momentary fuzzy period when you’re no longer asleep but you’re not quite awake, that I remember all over again. “Oh my gosh, I’m a Mom!” It’s not like I’ve forgotten, per se, it’s just that at eightish weeks in, it’s like my brain hasn’t quite gotten it engrained into every neuron that I now have this Punkin to call my own, and sometimes it requires a reminder. I like to think that with each reminder another one of those synapses is programmed, branded with You Are A Mother.
Perhaps by the time I’m 82 all of them will be up to date.
Two months ago today, this very afternoon, I was lounging away, texting my mother and enjoying the advances in modern giant-needle-in-spine technology while Hubz was mastering another level of Angry Birds on the iPad and our doula and our nurse were entertaining all of us with funny stories of crazy patients past.
I was nine days overdue, and there were moments in the days leading up to that point that I felt like I was never going to be a mom.
I was *so* going to be one of those women who is just pregnant forever. Forever and ever and ever. No one is pregnant this long. NO ONE IS THIS ENORMOUS. It’s just a well known fact that women’s bellies should never look this alien-like.
But it did end, just like all pregnancies do, and in the most dreamlike of ways. You arrived and the room disappeared around us and my heart burst open. And then the realization, “Oh my gosh, I’m a Mom.” The same one I now remind myself of almost every morning.
Oh my gosh, I’m a Mom. A new title. An immediate, permanent status.
Two months ago today, this very afternoon, your silly, amazing, adventurous, and hopefully long life in this world began.
Happy two-month birthday, sweet pea.
For more in the Dear Babygirl series: Letters to my Daughter