Today is a momentous date in our life together: Jim and I became parents to our first baby–the one I thought would be a “Sarah.”
Jim always guessed correctly.
We always wanted to be parents, although sometimes the pregnancy and delivery parts were a tad harrowing.
You know how it is said that labor pain recedes to a dim memory? Big fat flaming-pants lie. It doesn’t, at least not when it lasts for forty-five-and-a-half-hours (not that I was counting) followed by a crash C-section. (After four of those, I considered myself a regional contender for most-surgery-per square inch.)
And though I remember every towering piggy-back contraction of a lower back labor in which poor Sam was irretrievably stuck awaiting medical intervention; I also remember what every surrounding sense absorbed–the smell of the hospital room soap and of the lavender flowers cousin Chris sent us; the nicotine-tinged voice of Nancy the N0-Nonsense Night Nurse; the softness of Sam’s cheek as I held him and touched it in wonder; the taste of the plump summer tomatoes my mother brought from a farm stand when we finally took our beautiful newborn son home.
Most of all, I remember watching Jim and Sam watching and getting to know the wonder of one another. Jim’s strong hand could do the football hold, but he liked to envelope him in both hands, the better to hold him close.
But I’ll let you look and see for yourselves.
Happy Birthday, Sam. We love you.