We had arrived at the hospital shortly after noon that day, after my contractions had amped up to the every-three-minutes my doctor had told me to watch for. They were dull contractions that had begun the night before, too uncomfortable for sleep but too weak for the hospital.
I managed three hours of sleep that night. The next morning Ian called in to work. We knew you were coming soon.
That morning I squirreled away graham crackers and gatorade to sneak into the hospital bathroom and anxiously watched the hours tick past.
We timed contractions and by 11am, I could feel them coming closer together, still dull. Shortly after noon, we motored off to the hospital.
"They don't hurt at all even though they're close together. We're going too early."
"You wanna get Bubble Tea? Or go to the thrift store?"
"Nah. We're almost there; just keep going."
Sometime after 1:00pm the nurse checked me for the first time: "Three centimeters."
After she walked away, I wailed, "Three centimeters!? We're going to be here for hours! We're going to be here all afternoon and all night and into the morning. They'll give me pitocin. This is horrible."
Five hours later, you came screeching into the world, pitocin-free.
Immediately after you came into the world, the nurse whisked you away to your baby station next to me. You were born with a fever. The nurses nudged your dad towards you, reminding him to take pictures.
He snapped some photos and then sheepishly walked back to me, where he clutched my hand and quietly watched the chaos. The nurses chuckled at him, but the doctor kindly remarked, "I stayed with my wife, too."
When we finally held you, we stared at you, a stranger. We were confidants, lovers, introverts, and now, parents, who were going to let you, a strange little interloper, into our lives to share our home and our secrets.
It felt vaguely terrifying.
Your infancy has flown by. I spent six glorious months at home with you on maternity leave, and I loved every moment of it despite your clinginess.
Daycare has been the hardest part of your babyhood because my heart breaks every time I leave you at your little school.
I talk wistfully about the days I stayed home and wonder aloud whether I could stay home again, even while you're shrieking angrily and your dad is pulling a face because my god, woman, the screaming. Are you nuts?
You always hated baby food. You demanded table food as soon as we started you on solids. You eat everything.
I snuck you some white cheddar Cheetos once and have paid for it dearly ever since because you screech when you see me eating them, begging for a bite. And, well, they're the organic Cheetos, so why not?
When you eat, you rub food onto your head for reasons we shall never understand. You drag grease and sauce through your hair until it's standing on end. After every meal I must scrub your head with a dishcloth, lest you attract ants.
I have hauled my breast pump to work everyday for the past six months and dutifully locked myself away, fielding awkward questions and ill-timed knocks so you can feast on breast milk rather than formula.
Studies have recently scandalized our Breast is Best world because they show that breast milk doesn't really make a difference in the long run, and, hell, I've been saying that since you were born.
And I'm so tired of pumping that I declare you are starting on formula tomorrow, first thing, bright and early. But then morning arrives and I doggedly pack my pump and bottles like always, lest one drop of evil formula passes your precious lips because I am clearly an insane hypocrite.
You are so adorable that your dad and I can hardly stand it, and we sappily declare you the cutest baby in the world. Your dad acknowledges that every parent thinks this but goes on to decide that maybe, just maybe, you really are the cutest baby in the world.
You say "Mama", "Dada", and "Kee Cat." You call every animal you see a "Kee Cat", including the horse who lives next door.
We were constantly sick from the daycare viruses this winter. You dad and I have never been so sick in all our adult lives. I briefly considered hanging a sign upon our front door that reads "Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Live Here."
But your dad gazes fondly at photos of you grocery shopping just before a winter storm hit and remarks, "This winter was the greatest. I usually feel down during the winter but having Margot in those little outfits made it happy."
Your hair is slowly growing in, blonde fuzz that sticks up wildly. You have your father's features but your mother's face shape. Your skins is as sensitive as your father's, and we have to rub you down with a trifecta of lotion, diaper cream, and lanolin every evening.
You love electronics: iPhones, iPads, remote controls, and electrical cords. You pay little attention to your toys and no attention to your stuffed animals. You'd rather have the wires from your dad's latest project.
You like to pet the dog but get annoyed when she licks you, screeching in frenzied protest. You adore beating on the cats like they're oddly-shaped drums, but only the fat one allows you close for any length of time.
You love the other babies in your daycare class. You crawl over to crying babies and pat their backs. Your teacher calls you "a big help."
You've been the oldest baby in the class since you were 8 months old, and you know it. Your other teacher calls you "Queen Bee" because you go from baby to baby, patting their arms and bouncing their seats.
"Margot's very motherly," she tells me.
The baby in you is slowly disappearing. We take you to some gardens to snap photos just before your first birthday, and I'm shocked by the sudden appearance of relatively spindly legs.
That same weekend, you suddenly explode into a non-stop babbler, earnestly trying to impart your wisdom using your bizarre alien language.
You love "reading". You flip through your books and babble about each page. When I ask you to read me a story, you fetch your books and earnestly chirp through each one. I can't wait for you to talk with real words.
I have snapped a million photos of you as a baby, desperate to remember everything, knowing how fast it's going, and knowing the days of you needing me so terribly will rapidly vanish. But I'm so excited to see you grow and change.
Happy birthday, Margot. I'm so glad you're ours.
