I just had a moment. A cry your eyes out with-happiness-life-is-so-amazing-o- my-God-I’m-a-mother-type of moment. And what brought this on? Israel Kamakawiwoole’s version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow via my Jack Johnson Pandora station. I picked up the baby with one hand (because I still can, but not for long) and danced her around the living room singing along and bawling. And then I went in to Merp’s office and I told him how much I love him, and the baby, and Hawaii, while sobbing big wet happy tears (had to throw Hawaii in there, because, well, it will ALWAYS be my real home). THIS is what I’ve wanted and believe it or not I had sort of forgotten when I was pregnant or at least detached from it. I spent so much time worrying, fretting, stressing about what kind of mother I’d be, about her pending birth, about the big CHANGE. Maybe I didn’t appreciate every kick like I could’ve. But maybe that was a protective measure, a way to save a little sanity, a way to prepare me for this outpouring of pure, unadulterated love. Because now I’m so full of it and life I can hardly go a day without exploding with joy.  It’s that good. And it’s totally 100% worth fighting for no matter how arduous it was, is, or will be.

I intended my next post to be Birth Story Part 2 about the cold sleepless days following Daphne’s birth in the post partum ward of the hospital. I intended to write about the woes of breast feeding, how I’d yelp in pain each time she’d latch on, how my breasts still spray me and her and everything with milk at least once a day, or more like every time I nurse her. I intended to write about all the things I learned in that first week, like the importance of disposable breast pads (as opposed to the organic reusable ones that suck), of actually being stocked with newborn sized outfits despite everyone saying “they grow out of NB so quickly” except for when they haven’t yet, and the importance of stool softeners even if you didn’t have a c-section (after 9-months of amazingly regular bowel movements I was shitting bullets until recently).

But I’ve about summed up Birth Story Part 2 in one tidy little paragraph above and so for now I leave you  to watch Daphne dream, to hunt around the house for missing baby socks, and to enjoy the rapture that is motherhood. It may not be easy, but for me, it certainly isn’t that hard. Not in the ways I thought it’d be at least.

Then I remember that last April I lost a pregnancy at 7 weeks and that now I am looking down at my little rainbow, my April baby, my pot of gold. And really truly I think to myself what a wonderful world.


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