06 September 2007
Tomorrow you will turn two.
24 months ago we still hadn't met you;
still assumed you'd have brown eyes
could not fathom what enormous change
you would bring with you to our lives.
Two years ago tonight, on my fourth
day of pitocin, I begged you to give in
and be born. You refused to the end.
When they finally cut you from me
My relief was immediate and immense
even through your angry cries,
not yet ready for this world.
There is no preparing for that day,
for you or for us. You came into
this world all legs and elbows and screams.
But your father brought you to me
and though you didn't quiet in his arms
I knew you were really ours.
The whole universe shifted two years ago.
All we knew before slid over
to make room for you.
We would put you on the bed between us
and whisper to each other,
"What have we done?" as you held
our fingers in your tiny, powerful fists.
Since our first moments with you
in the hospital, we've fallen
more in love with this new world, this shifted universe.
More in love with you than anyone ever told us we could.