To My Sons the Day Before You Turn 1

Dear Miles and Emmett,

Twelve months ago today, I hadn’t met you yet. How is that possible? Because these days, and the last 364 days, I have breathed you. I have worn you and held you and rocked you felt you and loved you and breathed you every moment of every day, and it’s hard to remember what life was like before you were born. You have become woven into the fabric of who I am, and I don’t recall what it felt like not to have you around. I just know I feel fuller now than I ever have before.

I keep telling myself that you’re not really turning 1 yet because you were early, and that it  doesn’t  count until your due date next month, January 16. But the fact is, tomorrow is your first birthday, and this year has gone too fast.

Twelve months ago today, I knew you were coming soon. Dr. F had told me on Monday to come back Thursday and bring my overnight bag because I was already dilated 3 centimeters and, though he didn’t say it, I could tell from his face that he was increasingly concerned about my blood pressure and the protein in my urine. I told him I knew I was progressing because my constant contractions — ever present for about 10 weeks by that time — had started to change, and I felt something happening. He told me to stop taking evening primrose oil (I’d started trying to encourage labor naturally to avoid being induced because of my worsening pre-eclampsia) because he wasn’t available to deliver any babies on Wednesday.

Twelve months ago today was Wednesday, and we were getting really excited because we knew we would meet you the next day. We double and triple checked our hospital bags and made sure everything was in the car. We called the doula to make sure she remembered what the doctor had said. We decided to go out to dinner — our last meal as nonparents — and to get pedicures. (When we walked into the nail salon, the woman at the counter sat up straight and bellowed, “Ohhhh! BIG WATERMELON!” and made a beeline for my enormous stomach. Although she was a good six inches shorter than I am, she said her belly looked the same right before she delivered her twins 13 years earlier.)

Twelve months ago today, we went to bed for the last time as a family of two. It was hard to sleep that night — and not just because you were kicking me in the liver, Emmett, and you were playing your invisible piano on my bladder, Miles. I knew something big was going to happen the next day, and I was ready. I couldn’t wait to meet you. But secretly, as horrible as my pregnancy was, I wanted to be pregnant forever because as long as you were in my belly, you were all mine. I didn’t want to share you with anyone. I wanted to keep you close, all to myself, where I could protect you from everything and we could have our secret moments together.

You have been sick for the last two weeks, and as miserable as you are I think you might actually be enjoying it a little, too. These last three months have brought so much fierce independence from you both, and you don’t want to cuddle anymore. But when you’re sick, all you want is to be held, to snuggle against my chest and sink into my belly and nestle your face in the soft spot below my chin. I drink you in in these  moments, try to fix them in my memory, because I don’t know which time will be the last time you ever let me hold you like this and even in the middle of the night when every cell in my body is screaming for more sleep, I don’t mind holding you and rocking you until you go limp against my body and your breathing becomes regular and you murmur against my throat as I ease you back into your bed.

I less than a day, you will be 1. Congratulations, babies. You survived a whole year with us as your parents. I knew you could do it.

Love,
Mommy