Exactly one year ago today, just before noon, my baby girl was born and handed off to me by a doctor who wished me luck and told me she was beautiful. When fully stretched out, she didn’t even span the length of my forearm and, all in, she weighed about as much as a Pomeranian. It was a very strange feeling, holding her for the first time. If I might reference Pulp Fiction to analogize: I simultaneously felt as calm and collected as Jules in the diner scene and as nervous as Butch going to retrieve his father’s watch.
A year with a baby, preferably your own, can teach you more about yourself than any help group, psychiatrist, or book by a long shot. You learn what pushes your buttons and what buttons you have to push to survive any given day on little-to-no sleep. You learn the meaning of sacrifice, how to prioritize, and concepts that previously seemed abstract like unconditional love. It becomes apparent that time, for the past few months, has not been on your side and you’re ok with that. You realize that sometimes the smallest things can make you laugh so hard you almost cry. Your age really comes into perspective as you watch a child grow and it’s not a bad thing; it’s vital to cherish your own youth. You appreciate miniature victories like turning tears into laughter and are often amazed by the ingenuity and cleverness of the young mind. I’m not sure whether the final thing is above all or simply all-encompassing: you feel ready to take on the incredible responsibility of shaping someone after yourself, which means trying your best to improve on all of your shortcomings so they can inherit all of your good qualities to carry with them throughout their lives. It’s an adventure and surely qualifies as a second full-time job, which can be tiring, but is ultimately more satisfying than any occupation you can hope to have.
Happy Birthday, Bella.
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