This night always makes me a little bit nostalgic, more than even tomorrow, the day our ginger girl arrived in the world. I never get tired of telling the story. How I went to work that Monday as usual and when I left for the day, a co-worker asked me if I was going to work right up till the baby came.
“That’s the plan,” I said with a laugh. We still had five weeks till my due date.
The next morning my water broke and I woke my husband and we called the doctor and we drove to the hospital and I was admitted and IN LABOR even though I wasn’t having contractions yet. Today, eleven years ago, I was biding my time in a hospital bed, waiting for something to happen.
Meanwhile, the maintenance man for our apartment was finishing up a job at our place that had taken longer than expected and my mom and grandma left our hometown for a three-hour drive south with a stop at Target on the way because bless our hearts, we didn’t even have a crib yet for this bundle who was about to make the world a better place.
I’ll spare you all the labor and delivery details but our baby girl arrived in the wee hours of the morning, a redhead, five weeks early. Unexpected and surprising in all the best ways.
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I can’t say I was born to be a parent. I have had to grow into the role, and when they let us leave the hospital with a newborn just a few days later, I panicked, thinking for sure they had made a mistake letting us go home. I was certain of it when two days later we were back in the hospital because our baby’s skin was yellow, a sign of the jaundice they told us to watch for. I spent that night barely sleeping while my baby slept under a lamp that would bring her bilirubin numbers down. (I still think bilirubin sounds like someone’s name. Maybe a jazz singer.) It was the most frightening night of my young life and even though the nurses assured me all would be well, I wouldn’t believe it until we had been released for a second time.
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But let’s be honest. I’m still terrified at times. Parenting has been the most surprising, humbling, unexpected, panic-inducing ride. Most days I think I’m just okay at it. And I’m constantly wondering how I’m messing this whole thing up.
I’ve heard that parenting doesn’t get easier as your kids grow up; it just gets different. With an 11-year-old, I feel like “different” is the word to describe it, but I won’t tell those stories here. The closer my daughter gets to someday having her own social media account, the more aware I am of what is hers to tell and what is mine.
With an 11-year-old, there is a shift that is happening in my parenting style. I am letting go a little more while also trying to cherish what I’m not sure will last.
“Will you still hug me when you’re a middle schooler?” I sometimes ask her just before the bus comes to pick up the kids. She is our affectionate one, free with hugs and kisses, but I know the days of fledgling independence are coming. I tuck every “I love you, Mom” into a pocket in my soul because we have already seen glimpses of the “I hate you” dragon that seems intent on driving every family bonkers for a season.
I will not wish for time to stop or for the years to reverse. I have loved and loathed the years past in a fluctuating rhythm. Time does not stop. Nor does it reverse. I want only to remember yesterday and celebrate today and plan for tomorrow but I don’t want to rush any faster than it already goes.
How can she already be 11?
And how do I still feel like I have so much to learn?