On January 11, 2010, I sat on the examination table in the doctor’s office enormously pregnant, overdue, and a jumble of nerves. The doctor had left the room moments before, having weighed me and taken my blood pressure on both arms. As I sat there, contemplating the end of my life as a childless person, the doctor – who was not my regular – came into the room and curtly told me I was to go directly to the hospital.
My blood pressure had been high for a while. Putting me off work before my third trimester began and eventually onto modified bedrest orders which I, admittedly, did not follow as directed.
I remember little about the details of the three days in the middle, but on January 14 at 7:55am I was induced. Twelve short and very long hours later, at 7:55pm – literally, 12 hours – I had a son.
It’s almost impossible for me to believe that thirteen years have passed. I can still see the room in my mind’s eye, the group of nursing students off to one side and the anesthesiologist who was unable to do anything more than watch because the epidural arrived too late. I remember the doctor, the same one from the exam room, putting on her rubber boots (I was horrified) and that her gown hadn’t even been tied when she announced that she could see the head.
Like the thirteen years since, it all happened so fast.
Finley and I are as different today as we were then. Gone is my baby (though he’ll always be my baby) and in his place, a remarkable young man. A big brother. A great person with occasionally bad jokes. My favourite ice cream date and the first boy to really, truly, steal my heart.
Motherhood is, I’ve learned, a wild ride. There are ups, downs, and many sideways moments. It’s not often easy but it has been so worth it – every step of the way.
Thirteen years ago, I couldn’t have imagined today.
I couldn’t have imagined we’d have this life. That Finley would be who he is. That I could possibly love someone this much.
But I do.
Happy birthday, Finley. You are so loved.