We're in a storm watch here at the Kirk household.
Stormageddon is due May 29, although I have my suspicions we'll be home with him or her by that date. There's no medical reason for that hunch, just a mother's instinct that her baby has a different schedule in mind.
On Wednesday, I went in to do my pre-admission paperwork. A lot of it was repeat stuff from when I had Evangeline, but I picked up this excellent tip for introducing my children to each other: When Evangeline comes to the hospital after the baby is born, we'll have the baby in the bassinet so my hands are free to cuddle with her. Once we've had a good snuggle, we'll bring Stormy over to the bed and let Evangeline meet her brother or sister. And when we come home, we'll do a similar process - cuddle with Evangeline first, then family snuggles. I think she's young enough to accept the change pretty easily - she is a remarkably flexible child - but I want their first moments together to be special.
While I'm thinking of my newborn, I wanted to share this essay I wrote during my first night as a mother. When I wrote it, the words came so easily and I remember crying (not from pain!) because of the joy I felt in those moments. Childbirth is hard and I can't say I'm looking forward to that part of it again. But this time around, I know what's on the other side of the pain ... and I can't wait.
It's 2:30 a.m. and, like my husband and newborn daughter, I should be sleeping.
After all, less than 24 hours ago, I was laboring to bring said newborn daughter into the world and that's not something you bounce back from immediately.
I hurt in places I don't know the correct anatomical names for. I've been poked and prodded, torn and mended, resembling a pin cushion more than my normal self. I can't remember being this exhausted ever before.
I have every reason to sleep.
But I can't, or won't, because the small person sleeping in a plastic-sided cradle next to me has captured my attention, my heart, my very sense of reason.
I know life will never be the same.
And, oh, she is worth it.
***
Jim says the look on my face was priceless at 9:57 a.m. on October 10, when Dr. Cohee, holding a screaming and quite unhappy infant, announced we had a little princess.
For months, I'd been sure the infant growing underneath my heart was a boy. From the lack of morning sickness to the activity that kept me up at nights, I'd subconsciously begun referring to our child as "he."
I'd imagined being the mother of a son, learning how to wield a "peepee teepee" with skill and mastering the art of interpreting masculine grunts.
Our future as new parents, I had assumed, would be blue.
The prospect of pink, though welcome, seemed far away - perhaps with Baby #2 or 3.
But Evangeline Charlotte Kirk is most definitely a girl, and a punctual one, at that.
***
When we found out our baby's due date was Oct. 10 (10/10/2010), we hoped he or she would actually be born on that day. With our wedding anniversary of 7/7/2007, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Yet we knew babies are seldom born on their due dates, and as the day approached and I felt no signs of labor, I resigned myself to celebrating another day as Baby Kirk's birthday.
Still, we joked that since the pregnancy had gone so smoothly, the baby would know when Sunday rolled around that it was time to get the show on the road.
Sometimes we get what we want.
Precisely at midnight on 10/10/10, I woke up with an urgent need to, well, you know, do what every nine-month pregnant woman gets very good at doing. Before long, I recognized an unfamiliar but unmistakable feeling - it was go time.
Jim had sensed it too; I didn't have to say much, and there he was, rubbing my back, timing contractions and telling me how excited he was to meet the baby we'd nicknamed Thor.
I slept fitfully between potty breaks and contractions. Though the time between contractions ranged between four to eight minutes, each one was at least a minute long. We'd been scheduled for an induction at 8 p.m. on Sunday, but since it seemed we wouldn't be keeping that engagement, we left for the hospital at 3:45 a.m.
Hospitals, like any other institution, seem bigger at night when the day's activity has ceased. The short walk from the entrance to the delivery room seemed to take forever. I gowned up, weighed in, got my vitals checked and peed in a cup. I wasn't sure we'd be staying - Jim and I thought perhaps it was too early and we'd be sent home - but once the nurses hooked up an IV and fetal heart monitors, we knew it really was "go time."
***
I won't say much about labor and delivery. If you're a parent, you know what it's like. If you're not, it's not my place to burden you with the graphic details. But I will say this: It's the most instinctual experience I've ever had. I didn't question what my body was doing; all I did, all I could do, was listen to its demands and submit to its course.
And when it was over, when Evangeline was placed in my arms, I didn't forget the pain - I don't think anyone really forgets it - but it seemed inconsequential compared to the new life I'd just borne.
***
Now it's 3:15 a.m. and I'm sure I'll miss the past 45 minutes when I could have been sleeping. But writing this piece is a bit like labor itself. I couldn't stop the urge to write and chronicle the first 24 hours of motherhood any more than I could have said earlier today: "Oh, let's wait until 10:10 a.m. for a REALLY cool birth time."
***
My heart is full of thanksgiving - for modern healthcare and compassionate medical professionals, for amazing friends who are like family and incredible family members who are also friends. For an intuitive and selfless husband, who takes my breath away with the depth of his love. For a daughter so beautiful and unexpected.
For a God who knit Evangeline together in my womb, Who knows exactly who she will become and Who loves her more than I can fathom.
Evangeline, just hours old. So very tiny and so incredibly loved.
