Happy Birthday, Little Shmoo

Today, my Little Shmoo is a year old. Around 5:35pm, specifically.

I have so much to think about. I was telling True last night that I imagine that lots of mothers look back, on and around their child's first birthday, and can remember to the hour what was happening to them a year before. I said how I bet a lot of them recount those events with a twinkle in their eye, or a dash of mock-anger mixed in with the affectionate retelling of labor and birth. I think back to what I was doing one year ago right this minute (2pm) and shudder.

I was thinking that, when it comes to her entry into the world, I really don't have any beauty to recall, except the beauty that True and I made ourselves. And then it hit me: that is a pretty strong thing to overlook. Shame on me for putting that in a tossed-off, dependent clause like that! "Except!" Indeed.

True and I were shocked by Little Shmoo's entry. We were shocked by our own shock: how could we have been so oblivious to the wrongs being perpetrated by my body on our baby? We had no time to process our shock, and instead were forced -- by nature and whatever higher power hovered over our lives that day -- to battle pain, fear and  uncertainty, nearly nonstop, for months forward.

But.

We knew, going into the experience, before we knew there was an Experience to go into, that we were a good team. We knew and believed in our deep respect for each other, immeasurable love for each other, and unshakeable trust in each other. We believed that we could get each other through anything. 

And we could.

So what is the beauty to remember from that terrifying day, twelve months ago? It is in snippets here and there, and unlike many births, it is not so much about the baby. Her beauty has been revealed since, and trust me, it's stunning and glorious, but we didn't see it that day. That day, we looked into each other's eyes and dug deep into each other's souls. As we shared my short labor, as he talked to me while the surgery began, as we sang to Little Shmoo as they lifted her out, as he stroked Little Shmoo's head while they stitched me up, as we waited by her bassinet to find out where this adventure would take us, we held hands. 

So, thank you, Little Shmoo, for proving us right. Happy birthday to us.