I want to be like my daughter when I grow up

I left work on a Monday afternoon, 35 weeks pregnant, answering the question from a co-worker about how long I was going to work with, “As close as possible to when the baby comes.” A day earlier I had confidently declared that we still had “plenty of time” to get ready.

Maybe you can sense where this is going.

Sometime in the next 12 hours, I would wake to a dampness in the bed. Actually, do you remember the movie Juno? It hadn’t been that long since we had seen it, and there’s a scene where her water breaks and her eyes pop open and she’s instantly on high alert. It was just like that. Something had happened, and I was both sure and not sure that it was my water breaking.

I did what they said to do, and when I couldn’t stand the anxiety anymore, I woke up my husband.

“Honey, I think my water just broke.”

I remember he was groggy, and not necessarily excited to be woken in the middle of the night. I called the doctor, still not sure if this was actually happening. Our apartment at the time was still undergoing some repairs. We had no baby supplies to speak of. Because we still had time. The doctor agreed we should head to the hospital to check things out. My husband drove the speed limit, and I remember telling him we could go a little faster.

A nurse confirmed that my water had indeed broken, and what happened next was a blur. I remember hearing them talking about whether or not I was going to be able to stay there. I thought that meant they were going to send me home, but Phil gently reminded me that, no, what they were deciding was whether I would need to be moved to a bigger hospital because the baby would be five weeks early. Our pediatrician made the call that I could stay. We called our families, and I called in to work. I think we may have even called our landlord to see if work on our apartment could maybe possibly be expedited.

My mom and grandma hightailed it the three hours between us, stopping off at a Target or Wal-Mart close to where my husband and I lived and began buying up baby supplies.

A whole day passed with me stuck in a hospital bed waiting for something to happen. Phil went back to our apartment to pack a bag of stuff for us. We were that unprepared for the birth of our first child. I don’t remember everything we did that day. He might have even went to class. As the day went on, I wondered how long it would be before we met our baby.

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I feel like I’ve told this story before, but it doesn’t get old for me. I want to repeat it so many times that I never forget. I want my daughter to know the story of her birth, her coming into the world.

—

Around 11 p.m., just as the nurses were switching shifts, things started to change. I felt the beginnings of contractions and a check of my cervix showed evidence of dilation. Progress.

The rest is also a blur. I remember asking for a tiny dose of drugs, which just ended up making me feel drunk and not really helping with the pain. I remember the contractions increasing in strength. I remember how quickly everything happened. A few hard pushes and our daughter was born into the world with wisps of red hair. She was a surprise all around. I was sure we were having a boy. And I never expected to have a child with red hair.

She weighed more than 6 pounds and didn’t spend a day in any kind of NICU. She was early, but she was ready for life.

Our whole world changed that day, and it hasn’t stopped changing.

—

That baby girl turns 8 tomorrow, and I can hardly believe the years have passed so quickly. I know I’m supposed to hold on to the memories and enjoy the moments, and I am, mostly. I don’t want time to stop or go back, but I also don’t want to miss the moments. The important ones and the everyday ones.

She’s 8 tomorrow and she’s who I want to be when I grow up. How is it that our children teach us so much about ourselves?

This morning, she loaded up her treat bags for her class, along with ones for some of her special teacher and assistant friends. She grabbed an extra  notebook to give to the bus driver. Giving gives her joy. She would share anything she had with anyone (except maybe her brother when she’s in a mood, but even then, she usually gives in and lets him have some of whatever it is).

She has a new classmate who doesn’t speak much English and she has checked out half a dozen Spanish-English books to try to learn some words she can use to communicate with her new friend.

Recently, she wrote a play she wanted to share with the class. She told her teacher all about it, and the insecure part of me thought, “Oh, honey, don’t bother the teacher with that.” Schools have enough to pack into a day, and this extra thing my daughter wanted to do seemed unnecessary. (My writing card should be revoked!) Her teacher graciously asked her to type it up and e-mail it to her, giving her an example of how it should be formatted. Our daughter pecked away at the computer over several days typing lines of dialogue she had written herself. When it was finished, I e-mailed it to the teacher with a note of thanks, remembering that my own pursuit of writing was because of the encouragement of teachers like her.

I’m not yet sure of the status of the play, but I’m so proud of my daughter for offering it to her class. I don’t want to crush the creativity in her. As if I could. It practically bursts from her. She dresses in mismatched patterns and socks with as many accessories as possible. She wears dresses most days, and one time when there were large snow mounds at school, she led a couple of boys in sliding down the mounds, even though they ended up covered in mud. She was so pleased with herself.

She has a stubborn streak, and a lot of big feelings. (She comes by them honestly.) And we are going to have some tough days ahead, I know. But her confidence and stubbornness and, though I hate to use the word, her bossiness, will serve her well in a world that still wants to silence women. She is stronger already than I will ever be.

Her birthday is the biggest deal every year. She is the star for a day, and she soaks up the attention. She has so much love to give, and she seeks out friends wherever she goes.

No, she’s not perfect. Don’t let that be your takeaway from this. But she is ours, and she inspires me to be a better person. Because of her, I want to hold back my unkind words. Because of her, I want to try new things because she is adventurous and daring. Her life will make me a prayer warrior yet.

I didn’t know a thing about raising a daughter when we brought her home from the hospital. In fact, I was sure the nurses were making a mistake letting us go. We had the added fear of jaundice with her, and three days after her birth, we were in the hospital overnight while she chilled under a bilirubin light. It was the scariest moment of my life at the time. In three days, my heart had already left my body and was joined with hers, and even though eight years have passed, my heart still beats a little harder when I think about someday letting her go out into the big, wide world all by herself.

I imagine it will be one of the hardest things I ever do.

But she will never be satisfied with a small, quiet life. We are opposites in that way, and there are times I do not understand her at all. But motherhood is nothing if not a constant lesson in things we don’t know.

She is a gift to us, and we aim to treat her as such. She is on loan for a short time. We will do our best to prepare her. We will fail, sometimes.

I can’t wait to see what she will become.

And I don’t want to miss these days of her becoming.

Because of her, I am becoming, too.