January 11, 2010 was going to be a big day.
I remembered my OB-GYN’s words to me at my last check-up: bring a bag next time. As I packed a book, extra socks, and my makeup pouch, I anxiously hoped the day had arrived. It was a Monday, and I’d been waiting for so, so long to meet my little boy.
With my maternity jeans beginning to sag as weight slid off my pregnant frame, I can still remember the struggle to get my Ugg boots on. Bending over is hard when you’ve got an enormous belly.
My blood pressure had been a bother since October, and I was tired and uncomfortable. My son’s feet were in my ribs more often than not, and I fatigued quickly when I was up and about. That was seven years ago, but I can still feel the weight of my pregnant belly – the pressure of a baby pressing down in my pelvis. I can feel the breathlessness.
I remember being weighed in and confirming that I’d lost 2 pounds since the week prior. I remember sitting on the little bed in the examination room as the doctor checked my blood pressure first in my left arm, then in my right, then promising she’d be right back. I remember her patting my knee when she returned to order me straight to the hospital, where I would begin strict bed rest.
But not before a trip to the mall.
I remember eating at East Side Mario’s and picking up magazines. I think I bought some baby things.
I remember the sadness when my parents left me in the maternity room, alone. I was just a kid myself.
I waited three days to welcome F into the world. They were the longest days of my life, and I felt certain I’d have done anything to make time move faster.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to slow time down, now.