The day I became a mother is one I will always cherish.
It began with a pill to accelerate my labor hormones, followed by a drive to the hospital. My mother was by my side, clutching my hand and the diaper bag for my soon-to-arrive baby boy. Her excitement at becoming a grandmother once more was palpable.
Being the youngest and the only daughter among my siblings, my mother was thrilled about a grandchild from me. My father, on the other hand, was apprehensive at first. He was as fearful for me and my baby as I was, a feeling I now understand all too well as a parent myself.
As I awaited the daunting yet beautiful moment ahead, I felt utterly unprepared for the monumental shift about to occur. Despite nine months of preparation, I felt clueless. At 19, there's still so much of youth in me, and the fear of failing my child loomed large, beyond what any therapy could mend.
This marks the beginning of a process known as childbirth, ladies and gentlemen. They say it's a beautiful thing, yet all I could sense was fear...
At the forefront of my mind were the horror stories told by midwives and mothers who came before me. Tales of severe tearing, life-threatening complications for the baby or mother post-birth, or doctor's negligence—essentially every nightmare scenario. And then there's everything that could go wrong due to my own negligence after leaving the hospital. Murphy's Law.
The contractions are unlike anything I've ever experienced. Imagine period cramps, but with the intensity of chili peppers injected into your ovaries, combined with the pain of hitting your hip on a sharp corner. In short, opt for the epidural. It will save you from lashing out at everyone in the room.
The wait to have a needle inserted into your back is a kind of torture. Only Lord knows how much my mother's hands must have hurt from my squeezing, not to mention the slight (accidental) crying I did.
The arrival of the anesthesiologist, an elderly man with a slight hobble, brought immense relief, his likely extensive experience reassuring. He was undeniably kind, calming my nerves effortlessly, and I might even say he was wizardly. Remarkably, I didn't feel the needle; there was just a faint sensation, but no pain, only pressure. It seemed as though he wielded magic! From that moment, my labor proceeded smoothly, as if blessed.
He entered the world on July 20th, 2021, weighing seven pounds and eight ounces, measuring nineteen and a half inches. With just two strong pushes, he arrived. Silently, he was laid upon my chest. To this day, the first sight of him still leaves me in silence.
Covered in the remnants of birth, the bundle was as blue as ice, with fingers and toes to match. I feared the nurses had placed a lifeless infant upon me. Yet, he cried. His cries filled the room until his skin blossomed pink with life.
I enfolded him in my arms, kissed his forehead, and he ceased his crying to gaze at me. In that moment, as I beheld his face, warmth flooded through me, and the profound realization dawned: I was a mother, and this was my child, the tiny being I'd nurtured for nine months, now to accompany me for a lifetime.
It was overwhelming, yet wondrous.
If you're grappling with fears like I did, believe me, they intensify. Maternal instincts surge into overdrive. As the nurses whisked him away for necessary care, a bath, and to attend to me (thankfully, no tearing!), I was fraught with anxiety. My gaze barely left him, fixated on every cry and sound he made. The maternal bond, perhaps absent before, was undeniable now, coupled with an overwhelming desire to constantly hold and caress him.
Family members came and went, eager to meet him and full of questions, the most common one being, "What's his name?"
I'm aware that some of us ladies have a reputation for indecisiveness, and I certainly fall into that category. Throughout my pregnancy, I considered a multitude of names. I would fall in love with one and be convinced it was the one for about two weeks, then I'd stumble upon another. This cycle continued for months!
It wasn't until today that I was able to match a name with a face, and that's when you truly know it's the right choice.
"Ebenezer," I beamed, cradling the child in my arms. He gazed up at me with tiny gray eyes that would surely shift to blue, then perhaps to green like my own. His face was wrinkled as a shar-pei's, as if he was intently studying everything around him. To this day, I'm uncertain whether he's one of the cutest babies I've ever laid eyes on, or if my judgment is clouded because he's my own. The dimples on his face are the very definition of perfection—the cherry on top.
With each day that passes, watching him grow, my heart fills with an ineffable thankfulness for this precious boy who has graced me with the gift of motherhood.
