Next March, when my son turns a year old, I’m going to pause at 12:04 p.m. and remember the moment of his birth.
I will remember needing an emergency C-section and being cut into within a half hour. I will remember how afraid I was of not knowing what was going to happen to me, since I hadn’t really considered the possibility that I would need a C-section. I will remember telling my husband to take our son from my arms because I sensed I was weakening and was afraid that I would drop him. I will remember the four hours I spent in recovery, waiting for the numbness in my limbs to go away so I could see my baby again and begin to breastfeed.
I will also remember my obstetrician announcing, as he pulled our son out of my body, “He’s crying! Oh! He’s peeing and he’s crying!” I will remember my husband coming to see me while I was in recovery, worried about me, anxious to get breastfeeding off to a good start. I will remember how my baby was tiny and big at the same time – his hands and feet were so small, but as a total package, it was impossible to believe he had been inside my body.
And I will be grateful for the best year of my life.