We found out we were pregnant with you, our sweet little Marion.
You’re sleeping in your swing next to me, in an outfit your daddy picked out, holding your little froggie “dah” next to your face with Brahms’ lullaby playing on the iPhone.
If you had asked me 365 days ago, what I would be doing today, there is no way I would have ever believed I’d be looking at you. I never thought that you would be a possibility. I never thought I would make it this far. I never imagined I would be so blessed. Or that I would know such love and joy and amazement. Every morning I wake up and wonder how did I, of all the people in the world, end up with you? What makes me so special as to be so lucky as to be your mother?
I think the angels, God, and your brothers sat down and had a nice chat and you were the result.
When you are sixteen and resent us, resent our rules, hate your life and in general, act like a teenager, I hope I never forget what a miracle you are. And I hope you know that if we’re too strict, or too protecting, or too overbearing, its because you mean the world to us and we just want you to be safe and happy and not end up on some reality show.
I think I must have taken ten pregnancy tests that weekend and I don’t think I brought out the big guns of a digital until Monday. There’s something so definite about seeing the word “PREGNANT” pop up. A whole lot nicer than seeing “NOT PREGNANT.” Two lines. Our lives were changed by two simple lines. The fear that I felt, well, it’s never gone away. It’s just morphed from being afraid of seeing spotting or bleeding or no heartbeat to being afraid of you falling and hitting your head, or blankets over your face or a fever of any of the 101 worries a parent has about their child. I knew the reality, I knew that just seeing two lines didn’t guarantee you’d be in our arms. I knew there were no promises like that. I knew that too well.
But my heart still rejoiced. New life, new chances, new hope. I knew even if you never existed past those two lines that your little life still needed celebrating. And we haven’t stopped celebrating each day since then.
I remember coming home from Target, those tests burning a hole in the bag. That stupid, stupid song by Carrie Underwood “American Girl” came on the radio as I was pulling into the driveway. I sat and just sobbed, sobbed, sobbed, please God, let this day be different. Let this test be different. Let me give my husband a child. Let me a mother in my body, not just in my heart.
Two lines. Two little lines.
Now we have two feet, two hands, two eyes, two ears. We have you.
I cried my heart out New Years Eve 2007. I didn’t understand why I was so upset. I had my husband and my dogs in our house, it wasn’t like I was single and alone and that’s so depressing so that’s why I’m crying on New Years Eve. I realized with about two hours to go, that it was because I was saying a calendar goodbye to our twins. That I had been able to say “Oh yes, I was pregnant this year.” I didn’t know if I’d be able to say that in 2008. In 2007, at least I knew what it was like to see lines and be pregnant and tell people that news. I didn’t know if I’d be able to do that in 2008. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to hope.
I didn’t know that you were already living and growing inside me then. Just probably, oh six or eight or sixty four cells at that point. Maybe you’d started growing your tail then. I don’t think we could have even seen you with the naked eye. But you were there. A spark of life. A spark of hope.
You were there. A few days later, I knew it. Two lines told me so. I knew you were a girl from that moment. I knew you were you. I knew you were a gift. And so I celebrated.
I celebrated through the fear, through the 37 1/2 following weeks. Through some scares. Through a lot of sickness. Through more fear than I thought possible. Your dad and I celebrated every milestone, every week changing, every time I outgrew my pants. We celebrated you.
One year later. Two lines later. (Well, probably a hundred lines and several instances of the word “pregnant” on sticks if I’m totally honest.) We celebrate you. But this year, this day, I hold you in my arms, not just in my heart.