On this day two years ago, my belly was cut open, and out came a baby.
While I could’ve done without the hack job, I can’t complain about the baby. She has been the most angelic tot that ever lived in the history of the entire universe. Well, except for the sleeping part, but she’s getting better. Now she only wakes up one or two times a night. I’ll take that.
I remember after her birth, when all the commotion had died down, how sweet it was to revel in her. The medical staff had all gone on to more important matters, her daddy crashed on the cot in our room, and her auntie TL had stayed to watch over us. “I can’t believe I’m a mom! I can’t believe she’s mine!” was all I could say, as there are really no words to fully and accurately describe the feeling on the day they pull a child out of your body and let you keep it.
You were perfect, Munchkin, except for those little things that were “wrong” with you, but you were perfect to me. Those things were minor and added to your beauty. They still do.
And today, as you lay on the cusp between babyhood and childhood, this magical time called toddlerhood, I’m thinking that this is the perfect age. You are tiny still, able to curl up in my lap as you nurse no differently than a nine-month-old would. But you have your own will and your own opinions. You tell me what you want, what you don’t want, what you like, and what every animal that you see sounds like. You help out when I ask you to. But when you wake up crying at night, all it takes is to hold you like a baby and rock you a little to get you to drift back to sleep. I have my baby and my child, all wrapped up into one twenty-something-pound lump of giggles and kisses.