three.

Three years ago, I tossed and turned in the hospital bed. Sleeping was a necessity at that moment, but an impossibility, all the same. Eventually, a small amount of sleep was had, and even sooner, the morning sunshine came. The day was spent in prelabor pain. Walking barely helped, but sprite, ice chips, and eventually, the birthing ball were of some great assistance.
After much puking, it was dinner time. I was hungry, tired, and felt as though I could just fall over, dead, any second.
Most of the actual labor/pushing is gone from my memory; I was so exhausted the hours all run together. Nineteen minutes after five in the evening, I gave one last push, and a beautiful bundle of all hair was born.

There’s something to be said about the way a baby changes a mommy’s life. Not in a bad way, at all. Just, different. My whole life is different because one measly little pill didn’t take effect. Because, somewhere along the path, something clicked and, boom. I stood in a doctor’s office, while a nurse bit her lip and announced that birth control wouldn’t be necessary.
Or the next week, as I laid back on the exam table, and lifted my shirt as the lab tech used the ultrasound wand to snap pictures of my very own jellybean.

It’s different when the baby’s actually, physically, in your arms. You count the fingers and toes, over and over, smile as she looks up at you, whisper something about how beautiful she is, or how much you love her. It all changes then, really.

Everything’s different with a baby. And then, that baby grows up. And suddenly, you’ve got yourself a toddler, or in my case, a terrible two. And holy cow, talk about different.

Sometimes, change is good.

And other times, it’s the best thing, ever.

Happy birthday, little one.