Our birthday

To my daughter, on the eve of her first birthday

A year ago, we still shared one body, you and I. Your heart and mine beat together in perfect harmony, yours fast and faint, mine steady and strong. I remember those last precious days, my back aching and my womb full of life, my calendar counting down the days to your arrival.

Much like a child watching a thunderstorm roll in on a summer afternoon, I waited for you with both fear and awe. Birth is similar to a mighty storm in so many ways, actually - it is a magnificent force of nature, a beautiful and terrifying display of raw power and might. It demands preparation and yet renders us all unprepared for its impact. The pains of labor gave way after two days of fitful sleep and body-wracking cries, first from me and then, miraculously, from you - your first declaration of life. My deflated and wounded body embraced you, marveled at you, spoke prayers aloud over you. What a mystery - what a precious and glorious truth: you were knit together by the God who knew every day of your life before the beginning of time.

The beginning was like many beginnings: messy and chaotic. There was doubt and despair and crying, lots of crying. Your cries were urgent and primal; mine were pleading and desperate. There you were - flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, and yet a perfect stranger. I nursed you while I sobbed. You arched your back and broke my heart - why didn’t you want me? What was I doing wrong? I held you and felt the great and sudden weight of parenthood on my tired shoulders. I wrapped myself in a bath towel and slept, restlessly, my body sweating and shivering.

Reading the words of other mothers became the balm for my weary soul. I frantically searched for someone, anyone, who had been where I was. Would it ever get easier? Was I doing anything right? I read an essay that compared the first year of motherhood to a year at sea. I cried and showed the essay to my mom. “At least I’m not alone,” I said. The essay gave me hope. Solid ground was on the horizon. I sent out my dove and waited for it to return.

After five months, I began to trust my body’s ability to sustain you. Nagging suspicions gave way to cautious optimism; we were really doing this breastfeeding thing, you and me! I gazed down at you and memorized the way your eyelids fluttered as you nursed. I listened carefully to your gentle swallows and cheered you on, silently. I sang you lullabies and rocked you to sleep, bone-weary but feeling the cold of winter giving way to spring.

After six months, you started napping for longer. I no longer lived my life in 45-minute increments. I showered. I ate my breakfast slowly and deliberately. I read a chapter in a book. I carefully stepped back out into the world I had left for half a year, like a soldier returning from war. What had happened since you were born? Who was I now? The questions and emotions that had been pushed aside by the demands of a newborn were finally surfacing. I began to turn towards a new understanding of myself, carefully sorting through the pieces of me that could stay and the pieces that could be left behind. I watched you, awestruck, as you grew - your eyes filled with wonder, curiosity, and joy. I loved you. My, how I loved you.

After eight months, I got my first taste of dry land. The days were passing in a blur of activity, each one faster than the last. There came a moment when I realized that I truly loved being your mother - what a magnificent moment that was! You smiled and laughed and filled my heart to overflowing with the purest joy I had ever felt. The challenges of the previous months faded away into memory as you plowed full-steam ahead towards toddlerhood. For the first time, I felt the pangs of sadness that all parents eventually feel. Stop growing, I thought. Please.

After ten months, it all happened so quickly. Each day passed in an instant. Playgrounds, beach days, long walks with Daddy - you filled a hole in our lives that we never knew was there. I desperately tried to soak it all in; your babyhood was slipping through my fingers. Why does it have to be this way? I thought. I nursed you, begging you to drink from me, to need me - you started turning away. For the first time, there were better and more exciting things than my arms. I stumbled into your room at night, bringing you to my breast when you cried - anything to feel your weight and your steady breathing. I rocked you and you slept, still just a baby, but not for long.

And now here we are - on the night before your very first birthday, about to wave goodbye to our year at sea. We’ve changed a lot, haven’t we? We’ve learned to trust one another, to speak each other’s language. We’ve grown confident, side by side, learning how to exist in this big, scary, wonderful new world. We’ve fought our way through the currents and found our lifeboat during the storms. I’m weary but grateful. You’ve been a wonderful co-captain, my love. I’m so glad you’re mine.

Happy birthday, to both of us.