You were born last week, in the middle of the night, but not without a little resistance.
We came in to the hospital last Monday, when you were already 5 days overdue, to take a nonstress test.
Nurses fastened monitors to my tummy to keep track of your heartbeat and movement.
They watched and waited and said that they would keep me in the hospital until you were born.
I guess you were exhibiting some stress.
So they set us up. They attached an IV and started a pitocin drip to start contractions.
They administered an epidural.
Then we waited.
When they increased the pitocin to the maximum dosage, you reacted poorly.
So much so that they stopped the drip so that you could recover.
After a couple of hours they restarted pitocin at the lowest level and increased it slowly and watched you very carefully.
You seemed to respond well, but the pitocin didn’t help the contractions progress.
They called the doctor. The doctor called for a c-section.
They prepped us for surgery.
At 1AM on Tuesday, you were born.
I never knew a mere week could be so full of joy. And sleeplessness. And poop.
You came out alert, eyes assessing the scene. Your very first cry made me cry. The anesthesiologist wiped the tears from my eyes.
We have spent the last week learning how to communicate with each other. Your dad has been quick to get up in the middle of the night to change your diapers.
Your dad and I have already spent so many minutes gazing into your angelic little face and watching you sleep. We laugh at the faces you make; you make a lot of faces.
Sometimes we talk to you in cutesy voices, and sometimes we get serious and explain things about real life to you. You look at us intently.
Our joy is supposed to grow from here? I wonder how that is even possible.
We look forward to many, many more weeks together with you.