The Day We Met

There are certain moments of your life you just remember. They seem to swim around in your head and stand out among all the rest.

For instance I distinctly remember rehearsing for my Nutcracker debut as the all important reindeer in kindergarten. I remember in third grade the day my "boyfriend" Clint gave me $20 at school. I told my mom about it on the way to airport to see my Dad, after the inquisition I received when saying I could pay for my own snack at the Circle K. Apparently monetary giving is frowned upon in the public school system because my Mom called the teacher, who then had a conversation with Clint. Who, subsequently wasn't my boyfriend anymore after that.

Then there was first day I ever wore make-up in sixth grade. After school I called a friend to see how she thought it looked. Turns out I was the talk of our gym class with frequency I felt I needed to reapply. Sorry girls, Teen Vogue wasn't around to offer the style advice I obviously needed.

I remember the day I accepted Jesus at summer camp. The day I graduated from eighth grade and my first day of high school in a city I had lived in for less than 24 hours.

The next eight years are scattered with memories of good days and bad days. Decisions I would stand by to this day and some I regret so much it makes my insides ache.

And then, there are things it seems I should remember more clearly than I do.

Like roaming around Europe for the summer with a backpack on. Cleaning toilets for the summer in Yellowstone. And while we're on the subject... just what exactly was my wedding reception like?

Your Dad. I remember the first day I met him.

I remember wondering exactly how someone with a Footsloggers shirt on and that thing on his chin could relate to college students. And, while I do believe everyone is entitled to their own food preference I was sure his ramblings about fried chicken and sweet tea were just added proof college ministry wasn't for him. It turns out college ministry is right up his alley.

When I close my eyes I can see the day your Daddy asked me to marry him.

And when I look at you sweet girl, I remember the day we met.
For nine months I carried you around, praying, worrying, confessing my worry, and praying some more about the person you would grow to be.

I wondered what you would look like, dreamed about what you would smell like, and let my mind daydream about the first ballet class you would ever take.

I hoped I would be good enough, that all the books I read and classes I took and advice I had been given would guide me through the days and nights of life with you. That God would give me the heart I needed to love you, the compassion it would take to raise you, and the ability to function on less sleep than the normal person requires.

And then after all those months of praying and hoping and wishing and planning... you came.

When it was clear you were on the way I got up and showered so I would be ready when you arrived. I straightened my hair so it would be beautiful in our first pictures together and had your Daddy wear a light pink shirt to celebrate your arrival. Hours later my beautiful hair would fall limp with sweat and vomit and plaster to my face. Your Daddy's shirt would wrinkle and become stained and the first moments I dreamed about would vanish before my eyes as they swooped you away to NICU for monitoring.

Visitors would come and go. Many would see you and touch you before I ever held your tiny body in my arms. My body ached with worry and regret. What if you would not eat? What if you never became attached because your first hours were spent in a sterile room? What if you did not know who I was? And finally, hours later, it finally happened.

We met.

Your Daddy handed you to me as I laid unable to move in that hospital bed. You seemed so small in my arms and yet so long compared to my body and I wondered how exactly you fit inside my belly at all. When the commotion died down and everyone went home you ate and ate well and our prayers were answered.

Then you cried. You cried for hours into the night.

You stopped only when held upright on my chest, skin to skin. You did not want your Daddy, you did not want the nurses at the hospital, you only wanted me. It turns out you did not care how straight and beautiful my hair was. You were not concerned for how my make-up looked for our after birth photo shoot, and you could have cared less what outfit you were wearing. All you wanted was to be in your Mommy's arms and to hear her voice.

And I knew... you knew who I was.

I tried out for Show Choir twice in middle school, each time I looked at the list of those who were deemed good enough to represent our school and walked away with the sting of disappointment. Those are days I will never forget. And yet they represent a very real truth, your Mama cannot sing. And yet, in that little hospital room as the rest of the world slept, you quieted when I sang to you. I sang over and over again, every song I could remember as I watched the hours on the clock go by. 19, 21, 24, then 27 hours without sleep.

And still I sang.

I prayed and thanked God for the gift he had given me. I prayed for your life, for your salvation one day, for your husband, and for every person who would ever possibly come into contact with you. I begged God to keep you safe, and me sane, and your Daddy strong as he lived in a house with two women and a dog full of black and white fur.

The day we met, in those early morning hours, I began to fully understand what it means to be a mom.

What it means to eat last, and not shower, and to forgo sleep in order to care for someone else. What it means to fulfill a role that has no start and stop time or vacation days, because once your first day on the job has begun, it only ends the day your last breath is taken.

And most importantly I began to realize the privilege having such a job is.

The joy your life brings me on a day to day basis is immeasurable. The ways in which God has used your life to mold me more into who He wants me to be is unfathomable. I know at the end of my life the privilege of all those sleepless nights and missed meals and skipped showers will have been mine. Because sweet girl God used you to make me into something no one else could... a mom.

And there is nothing else I would rather be.

I love you Mia Kate, thank you for making me a Mom.