In honor of my baby turning 1 (how do I have a 1-year-old?), I’m re-sharing my first blog post.
I cried when I found out I was pregnant. Not an “I’m so overcome with joy” cry. More like an “Oh dear God, what have we done” cry.
My husband was alarmed by my initial reaction.
“You know this is what we were trying to do, right?” he asked, hugging me.
Of course I knew. I just wasn’t prepared. So not prepared, that I had poured myself a glass of red wine just before sneaking off to take the test. Ha! Who does that? A girl in denial, that’s who. (Mental note for future post: Address notion that 30-something-year-old mom still refers to herself as a girl).
Of course, deep down, I kind of knew it would be positive, otherwise, why take the test to begin with, right? But as they say (and by “they” I mean everyone on the planet with kids), you’re never really ready.
That night, (after pouring my untouched glass of wine down the kitchen sink) we watched A Nightmare on Elm Street (did I mention it was Halloween?), but I barely paid attention to the movie that used to scare the daylights out of me as a kid. Freddy Krueger seemed like a sweet little purring kitty cat compared to the idea of a little human that would be solely reliant on us.
Thankfully, the panic subsided fairly quickly and gave way to an insomnia-inducing combination of nervous excitement and neurotic nesting.
By 12 weeks, I was bursting at the seams to share the news.
At 14 weeks, we found out we were having a boy (to which my husband responded with a fist pump, a la The Breakfast Club.
By 20 weeks, I was gone; utterly and completely head over heels for this little creature practicing somersaults in my belly.
Our due date was July 10, but C.J. was born two weeks early, coaxed out by 9 hours of pitocin, followed by 53 minutes of twitchy, anxious encouragement from a very stressed-out father-to-be.
Up until that point, I had been nervous about holding him. I’d never held a newborn before and was terrified I’d drop him. But the second they handed me that 5-pound, 6-ounce bundle, I finally understood what everyone meant when they said, “It’ll come naturally.” The three of us sat in that hospital bed, our new little family unit, blissfully happy. In that moment, everything felt insanely right in the world, and all my fear and anxiety was drowned out by this fierce, new crazy kind of love.
We’ve got this, we thought as they settled us into our cozy little Mother Room. We’ve soooo got this.
Then the nurses left. And we were all alone. Just the three of us. Our new little family unit. C.J. cried. Jonathan and I looked at each other. Then we looked at C.J.
Ummm … nurse?
Matching Socks Are Overrated 