Happy birthday little one

Tomorrow morning, when my son wakes up, he will be one year old.

I am overwhelmed by that. So much has happened, so much has changed, so much has evolved since that moment I first held him in my arms, since he was whisked away from me to the NICU, since I counted the minutes until he could come home with us.

There are so many emotions it's almost too much to write about, but I will try.

This time last year, at this moment, I was in labor. Our baby was four days late, and I spent that day, February 25 of last year, trying to encourage this labor thing to get going already. My doctor, concerned about my advanced maternal age (39) and the possible increased risk of stillbirth related to my age, was only going to let me go a week late before I would be induced. So I walked and walked and walked (very difficult to do because I was so enormously pregnant that walking was painful). I tried to relax, getting a pedicure and having my toenails painted baby blue--as if to coax him out. Come on, baby, move toward the toes!

And it worked. That evening, the contractions started. At first they felt like menstrual cramps, but they became much stronger quickly, and they were close together right away. That didn't seem right, and I could already hardly talk when I tried to speak to my doula on the phone. She said it was probably best to go ahead to the hospital.

Nineteen hours later, after an unpredictable and at times frightening labor full of unseen twists--induction! Pain medicine wearing off! Failure to progress! Baby's heart rate dropping--twice! my doctor recommended a C-section. By then I was so afraid something was going to happen to my son that there was little question. "Please, just get him out safely," I remember saying.

In a whirlwind, he was out of my body, and I remember the next several minutes seemed like hours to me because I couldn't see him and I couldn't hear him. I kept asking, "why can't I hear him crying? Why isn't he crying?" and getting no response. I could see doctors moving, crowding in the corner, and I knew my son was at the center of their huddle, but no matter how I tried to move my head, I couldn't see anything. My husband was over there, seeing what was happening but wasn't saying much either. My heart raced in fear and anticipation, hoping to see my baby's face at long last, and wanting someone, anyone, to please tell me what was going on.

And then they held him up for me, ruddy and squinty-eyed, bubbles forming between his lips, not crying, but definitely alive and pink. And I heard broken pieces of conversation about needing to take him temporarily somewhere for observation. But that I would get to hold him.

Wrapped in a swaddle blanket, with a blue and pink striped hat precariously on his head, he was placed on my chest and I encircled him with my arms. I will never forget my first close-up look at his face--his wrinkled forehead, his heavy eyelids, his perfect tiny lips. I tried to memorize every detail--if they were going to take him away for now, I needed to remember.

And then he was gone, and I was being wheeled to a recovery room. My husband went with him and I lay in that room wondering how long it would be before I would see my son again. And if he would really be all right.

I found out later that he had inhaled amniotic fluid filled with meconium--his first bowel movement--and that it would take time for his lungs to clear. That's why he didn't cry. He ended up staying longer in the NICU so they could make sure he was eating enough and would continue to do well once he came home. That's a whole other story--adventures in initiating breastfeeding with a NICU baby. I'll tell that one another time.

About eight hours after he was born, I was finally able to come to the NICU to see him (before that I was in recovery from surgery and even getting in a wheelchair was impossible). I held him for the second time, pressed my cheek against his, and made a promise to him--that I would always and forever be there for him, that he would always me my priority, that he would always know how incredibly deeply he is loved. Then I just clutched him to me and cried.

After four days, our son finally came home. My heart rejoiced, and rejoices still.

Our son. He is the most amazing child. Everyone says that, but it's really true. He is the most joyful, inquisitive, open-hearted, gregarious, energetic baby that I've ever seen. I remember a friend saying when he met him, "there's so much joy there in that one little dude." His smile--oh, how those little lips turn up into a dimpled grin that lights up his whole face--is my very favorite thing in the whole universe. Or maybe it's second to his laugh, his deep, belly laugh, which makes a frequent appearance. He is the very essence of joy and light. He is the love of my life.

And tomorrow, he will be one year old. 12 months of sleep deprivation, fumbling with diapers and snaps and pants and socks, breastfeeding and bottle feeding and finger food feeding and burp cloths and bibs and baby gates and play dates and so many toys that play music and pacifiers and swinging and shushing and ...

Joy beyond words. Gratitude beyond expression.

Happy birthday, little one.