Vitafamiliae

Dear Willa,

You snuck up on me.  I remember being at a wedding shower, serving cake, and the room started spinning.  I immediately regretted my choice of high heels, my suddenly suffocating skirt, and the smell of wedding mints.  I remembered a similar episode before I found out I was pregnant with Ellen and started doing some math.  No one in the room knew it, but I had just realized I was pregnant.  Again.

I was so sick.  I don’t remember much about the first trimester, it’s all covered over in a blur of fog and quease.  And then suddenly, I felt terrific.  I was energetic, I didn’t have to suck in my stomach any more, I could let it all hang out, I had plans, I got crafty, I felt like cooking again…  I was a force to be reckoned with.

Until you reckoned with me in the grocery store and sent me to the hospital in pre-term labor.

Your daddy and I had been down that road before.  We knew the drugs, we knew the side effects, we knew the drill.  But we didn’t know how this time would turn out.  So we prayed and I cried and we talked to you often, begging you to stay put.  You kicked and hiccuped and bipped your daddy in the nose whenever he got close with his deep, booming voice.  I sat through eleven weeks of bed rest, just you, me, and my bedroom, waiting.  Bed rest snuck up on me.  We never planned for that.  But I look back now and I treasure those moments.

Those were the moments where I sat still and prayed.  I couldn’t do.  I had to just be.  I was medicated, pregnant, and more alone than I had been in a long time.  Except for you.  You, little Willa, were right there.  I talked to you.  I patted you and faithfully applied lotion to the bump that housed you.  We battled over possession of my innards.  I willed you to stay put.  I wondered who you would look like.

And then I begged you to get out…

Who knew you’d be nine days late?  Even now, a year later, I still remember the pain in my heavy belly as I carried you around.  I remember the overwhelming sense of frustration that is so inexplicable unless you’ve ever carried a baby past a due date.  I remember the fear of the unknown, of labor.  I remember wanting to do what was best for you, even if that meant carrying you around for another two weeks.  And then your daddy and I sat in Momma Goldberg’s Deli over a plate of nachos and decided that we’d let the doctor induce labor.  We were more than ready to meet our contrary little baby.

And so you were born.

That night, after the nurses left us alone and your daddy was sleeping, I sat in bed, jacked up on endorphins and love, holding you.  You were cold, so we were skin to skin.  I did my best to replicate the incubation I’d provided for more than nine months.  You cuddled close and were so content.  You kicked and I recognized your movement.  We sat for hours, practically glowing we were so warm and happy.  Suddenly what had been inside was on the outside.  And I was head over heels in love.

The week you were born, we discovered the entire family had walking pneumonia.  I took to my bed and remember very little about the next two weeks except that I was exhausted and you were causing pain and devastation to my chestage area.  Four weeks later, we turned the corner and I realized we would survive the winter.

But you did more than survive.  You thrived.  You have thrived on the noise and chaos of our home.  You have thrived on the sometimes less-than-gentle affections of your siblings.  You laugh at them and scream at them when you want your way.  You expertly bossed your brothers around before you were even six months old.

You are opinionated and very vocal about it.  You prefer to feed yourself.  Unless you don’t. You like to explore and crawl about on your own.  Unless you don’t.  You like to poke one tiny finger up in the air and jabber for all you are worth.  We call it “preachifying.”  And you do it with gusto.  You are the first to wake in the morning and will not rest until you’ve yelled your sister from her slumber as well.  Then she wakes up and sings to you and you are all roses and sunshine.  If I leave the house, you punish me with anger and fussing when I return.

But I don’t leave you much.  Because you still need me.  Three times a day, we cuddle up.  You nurse and I marvel.  We are once again glowing and radiating with warmth and love.  Then you turn those sparkly blue eyes on me, flash me those four little white teeth, and we melt in a puddle of mutual affection.

And today, today you are one.  Your daddy and I have soaked up every minute possible.  We’ve cuddled longer, spoiled you a bit more, and tried to keep you our baby forever.  But you won’t have any of it.  Which is why this birthday snuck up on me, too. And why I plan on spending the whole day treasuring and marveling and feeding you cake.

Happy Birthday, sweet Baby Willa.  You are the daughter we didn’t know we needed.  You are the exclamation point to our days.  And we are so grateful that God trusted us to be your parents.

Even if you did sneak up on us…

The dictionary says “snuck” isn’t a word.  But I can’t bring myself to use “sneaked.”  Please pardon my grammar.  I figure my daughter will forgive it, especially if I teach her some day to believe that “snuck” is really a word.

Photos courtesy of my genius sister, Abbi.  Coat and hat knitted by H. Hobbs.