This was the last post I made on LiveJournal, the first thing I'd had time to write since Leila was born, and the final time I allowed myself the luxury of writing. It's the closest thing to a birth story I have for her, so I wanted it included here.
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April 19, 2009
Driving the long stretch of highway between Kentucky and Alabama on a warm April day, you can’t help but admire the vibrancy of the whites, greens, pinks and lavenders splotched on the landscape that signal the season for new life. I’ve got a perfect little blue-eyed example of new life sitting next to me, as well, all nestled up in her car seat, sucking on a purple binky, dreaming of … who knows what? (What DO babies dream about, I wonder?) She is now almost 7 weeks old. We’ve come a long way since a hastily penned note to this mysterious creature the night before I met her. It’s been the fullest month and a half of my entire life, leaving me with little time (or energy) to write anything since the night of that note. Actually, in the rare moments that I may have had time, I didn’t really have the words yet. I’m not even sure that I do now. But I thought I should take advantage of this situation (being confined to the car and unable to do my usual thing: hold the baby) and at least try.
I could attempt to chronicle where I left off, picking up with the day of Leila Grace‘s birth, detailing each moment (as well as my drug-addled mind could retain). But what would be the point? There’s really no adequate way to describe a birth experience unless you’re a woman who’s been through it. Equally, there are no sufficient words to describe what it’s like seeing your child for the first time, unless you’re a parent. Everything just kind of falls short. I’ve tried so hard to write in detail the happenings of my life, thoughts, feelings, etc. in this journal about so many important moments – so I could look back and remember moreso than to inform any readers. It’s interesting to me, then, that the most important moment of my life needs very little chronicling; I feel certain that there’s no way I could ever forget each and every minutiae of that day. It frequently runs like a movie trailer through my head, vignettes that are burned on my heart forever: the acute fear walking into the operating room; the relief of Bo’s face close to mine and the warm assurance of my hand in his every second until she started to make her entrance into the world; watching his face as he watched her arrive, both of us sobbing with joy; the most beautiful sound ever to hit our ears – her healthy first screams (!); the nurse holding her over the sheet for me to see; watching, as they cleaned her off and took care of her, in utter awe that that LARGE creature was inside me (no wonder my ribs ached so much!); the first moment I held her in my arms and she looked into my eyes, and with wonderment I said, “THERE you are …”; holding her to my breast and nursing her, amazed that somehow we both instinctively knew what to do; my heart swelling with love for Bo as I watched him care for her while I was confined to my hospital bed, as though he had been caring for her his entire life.
The rest of that day and the days after, before I went home, are a blur of visitors, nurses, and pain meds. The first night at home was terrifying, and so many things about what she wants and how to make her happy remained – and still remain, almost two months later – an unsettling mystery. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get it all right. Especially with the stresses since she’s been home of infections, antibiotics, a trip to the ER, multiple doctors visits, thrush – for her AND for me, all of which have wreaked havoc on any hope of a routine with breastfeeding or anything else. There were days in the beginning that all I could do was cry, and I didn’t think I could get through it – and probably would not have been able to were it not for the grace of God and the help of my amazing mother. But those are memories that I think time will eventually fade; their details will lose their vividness like construction paper left too long in the sun. You can almost tell what color they used to be, but they are no longer useful.
The shimmering brilliance of the moments of that first day, added to by the memories of her first bath, the first time she looks at you and you know she knows you, the first time she turns to hear your voice, the first time my grandmother got to meet her namesake and watching them stare into each other’s eyes, the moment I truly fell completely and irrevocably in love with her, the glory of her first smile, and all the glories in between and those yet to come – THEY are like the bright whites, greens, pinks and lavenders of new life: only growing richer and truer with time, and constantly renewing and transforming themselves. Put away sometimes, but never lost. And always something to look forward to.
That’s the only way I know how to say how it feels to be a mother.
Leila Grace Jessop
Born Monday, March 2, 2009 at 10:25 a.m.
8 lbs. 7 oz.
20 in. long
Light brown hair and bright blue eyes.
10 fingers and 10 toes.
Perfect.
Mine.
I could attempt to chronicle where I left off, picking up with the day of Leila Grace‘s birth, detailing each moment (as well as my drug-addled mind could retain). But what would be the point? There’s really no adequate way to describe a birth experience unless you’re a woman who’s been through it. Equally, there are no sufficient words to describe what it’s like seeing your child for the first time, unless you’re a parent. Everything just kind of falls short. I’ve tried so hard to write in detail the happenings of my life, thoughts, feelings, etc. in this journal about so many important moments – so I could look back and remember moreso than to inform any readers. It’s interesting to me, then, that the most important moment of my life needs very little chronicling; I feel certain that there’s no way I could ever forget each and every minutiae of that day. It frequently runs like a movie trailer through my head, vignettes that are burned on my heart forever: the acute fear walking into the operating room; the relief of Bo’s face close to mine and the warm assurance of my hand in his every second until she started to make her entrance into the world; watching his face as he watched her arrive, both of us sobbing with joy; the most beautiful sound ever to hit our ears – her healthy first screams (!); the nurse holding her over the sheet for me to see; watching, as they cleaned her off and took care of her, in utter awe that that LARGE creature was inside me (no wonder my ribs ached so much!); the first moment I held her in my arms and she looked into my eyes, and with wonderment I said, “THERE you are …”; holding her to my breast and nursing her, amazed that somehow we both instinctively knew what to do; my heart swelling with love for Bo as I watched him care for her while I was confined to my hospital bed, as though he had been caring for her his entire life.
The rest of that day and the days after, before I went home, are a blur of visitors, nurses, and pain meds. The first night at home was terrifying, and so many things about what she wants and how to make her happy remained – and still remain, almost two months later – an unsettling mystery. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get it all right. Especially with the stresses since she’s been home of infections, antibiotics, a trip to the ER, multiple doctors visits, thrush – for her AND for me, all of which have wreaked havoc on any hope of a routine with breastfeeding or anything else. There were days in the beginning that all I could do was cry, and I didn’t think I could get through it – and probably would not have been able to were it not for the grace of God and the help of my amazing mother. But those are memories that I think time will eventually fade; their details will lose their vividness like construction paper left too long in the sun. You can almost tell what color they used to be, but they are no longer useful.
The shimmering brilliance of the moments of that first day, added to by the memories of her first bath, the first time she looks at you and you know she knows you, the first time she turns to hear your voice, the first time my grandmother got to meet her namesake and watching them stare into each other’s eyes, the moment I truly fell completely and irrevocably in love with her, the glory of her first smile, and all the glories in between and those yet to come – THEY are like the bright whites, greens, pinks and lavenders of new life: only growing richer and truer with time, and constantly renewing and transforming themselves. Put away sometimes, but never lost. And always something to look forward to.
That’s the only way I know how to say how it feels to be a mother.
Leila Grace Jessop
Born Monday, March 2, 2009 at 10:25 a.m.
8 lbs. 7 oz.
20 in. long
Light brown hair and bright blue eyes.
10 fingers and 10 toes.
Perfect.
Mine.
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