Three
Three years ago I stood in the hallway of one of our three California rentals, with my arms pressed against the wall above my head and my hips pressed back, groaning and swaying into the night.
With the crib set up and the car seat installed and her due date approaching and her middle name spelled out two different ways on a piece of paper at the corner of Rob’s desk, our daughter’s arrival felt more and more real with each contraction. We had spent the weekend out and about as much as possible, buying an exercise ball at Target and with me sneaking out in the early morning for peppermint extract for mochas and brewer’s yeast for lactation cookies, but finally on Sunday night I accepted the reality that I was in labor and we summoned my aunt, who showed up an hour later to tell us we were doing great and put pressure on my back and fill up the tub for me.
In the early morning I made tea and heated up a pumpkin muffin, thinking that she would arrive that day. She didn’t, but she was close. I couldn’t tell if she was working with me or against me as we drove to the hospital and got checked in and I was poked and prodded and finally settled into a bed.
Another night passed, this one more difficult than the last.
But then there she was, at 5:30 on a Tuesday morning, in my arms before the sun came up, followed closely by a turkey sandwich and a spicy tuna roll.
Our first moments as a family of three are almost a blur to me, but here and now three years later it’s hard to believe she ever wasn’t there.