I rose to a beautiful bouquet of flowers nestled next to my bed, my husband presenting a tray of my favorite organic breakfast foods, my three children as the peaceful audience to this loving tribute. We shared a steamy shower together as the children went about their morning routine independently, productively, cooperatively. As we giggled back and forth across the streak-free bathroom mirror, we dreamed of our next precious addition. We even left a few minutes early for our appointment to give us time to meditate quietly in the car together, fingers interlocked, before we found out a little more of what the dynamics of our family will be, then we stroll into the appointment leisurely, a milestone in this ten month journey celebrated and appreciated in complete harmony. It was, truly, so … dreamy.
Dreamy. Not at all our reality.
In fact, other than our three munchkins being audience (although it was more to our dysfunction, rather than any loving tribute) not much about this morning was picturesque. We scrambled about independently, rotating between monitoring breakfast for the two oldest and taking our turn at the bathroom sink to somehow manage a presentable face for the day, although this turn comes hand-in-hand with the toddling baby at our knees, usually with his breakfast of a squeezy baby food in hand. (Best. Invention. Ever. By the way.) And then, the crisis of the morning occurred. Missing shoes. Not that this is really unusual in our house. But this time, it was the father of the home’s shoes. And these take a little more precedence than those of the Velcro inclination. We searched everywhere. Even tried to get the kids in on the action. I tried for about .3 seconds to make it a game, and then resorted to bribery. “Please, please help us find Daddy’s shoes. Whoever finds them can have Sesame Street before 9 am, candy before 10 am, no naps, the moon, whatever you want!” Nothing. Nowhere. We left the house in separate cars, a little more than stressed, no major blowups (this time), just that fine line of barely holding it together, just trying to make the appointment on time. Tension, well, it rode in the front seats along with us.
Tell me you’ve been there before.
I walked a few steps ahead of the hubs, like somehow this would make the difference in “late” or “on-time” and simultaneously communicate my state of mind. He might’ve cracked a joke or two. He does that. He knows I need it. I dismissed it with some sort of really lady-like “harumph.” Somehow, in addition to tardiness topping my pet-peeves list, even with three wonderfully healthy children at home, the nerves of seeing my baby for the first time had set in. I guess despite the number of diapers you’ve changed, boo-boos you’ve kissed, time-outs you’ve administered, this reality doesn’t change anything.
We finally checked in and headed back to the room. I bunched my oh-so-sexy full-belly-coverage maternity jeans down and paused in surprise at just how rotund my tummy was getting. It’s always such a milestone once the belly starts protruding in a pregnant-looking way rather than just jiggling. (I still have a little of both going on.) The hubs settled in next to me. He reached over and our hands met. And this time, without a word, forgiveness won.
Someone once told me that children can’t save a marriage. It’s absolutely true. Having children is chaotic and loud and busy and stressful. And we’re only four and a half years in to this thing called parenthood … fact is, we’ve got a long road and a lot of learning ahead. And yet, somehow, sometimes, there’s some sort of redemption in realizing that the two of us have a hand in creating this miracle of life, now four times over. It’s a claim no one else will ever share with us; it’s like a secret that only we know. No one else will ever love our children like the two of us who have anticipated them since they were a double line on a plastic stick, who have dreamed of them since we felt their rolling, hand-over-hand stretched across my bare skin roundness. They’re our blood, our family, our us-ness in one.
The doppler flashed mechanically through as we stared, enamored once again by the glimpses we could understand, the hand, the fingers, a profile shot, the stretch of the baby’s spine curved around, the fluttering of a four-chambered heart. I love these details, every time. These details of this miracle of life. I studied each frame intensely, debating with my inner self if I could make out any form of anatomy that would clue me into the gender dynamics of our family for the rest of our lives. I never can.
“Do you want to know?” she asked.
“Right now? Yes, wait, hold on, okay, yes,” I answered as I made sure my fingers were intertwined with this child’s father’s.
I cried.
Either way, I would have cried. Not sadness, you must know. It’s never that. Not even out of appreciation of pink over blue. These were simply thankful tears. Pure, humbled, all-encompassing thankfulness. Thankfulness for the journey of pregnancy despite my largeness, my achiness. Thankfulness for the highs passed, memories abundant of life with an infant each time, three times past, and those peaks to come, this being one of them, meeting who I can now refer to as “my daughter” rather than “the baby.” Thankfulness for the lows that I know so well, the sleep-deprived spats, the wondering over fevers and various symptoms, and those valleys I don’t anticipate and welcome but know must come. Thankfulness for this family of mine, this wonderful, crazy, beautiful, chaotic family that my husband and I have created, one act of forgiveness after dysfunction after giggle after teardrop at a time.
***
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, as I crawled under the sheets that night, still giddy over my little girl, he found his shoes. It took a little digging, literally, but buried 500 deep (plus some stuffed in the toes), there they were in the Lego basket.
Such is our so very full life.
