The first three years of our marriage I waited for him to announce his departure, my warts and secrets having been revealed. The scrappy bunion on my left baby toe that would never go away, the diverticulitis that acted up if I ate too many peanuts, my Sylvia Plath-ness that caused fits and starts of moody crying. I figured my imperfections and I were all up for reconsideration once exposed.
To his credit, he hung on and we learned how to orbit each other without causing interplanetary destruction. Then a baby came along and redefined our life. After three miscarriages, the birth of my daughter was proof that my God had found favor with me. I determined to have a natural delivery, without drugs. These things I demanded so I could feel every contraction, every wincing pain. I didn’t want to miss any part of it.
After thirty hours of agony they call labor, out she came, black hair matted around cherub cheeks. They placed her on my stomach and she rooted for my nipple, head rocking back and forth until the nurse slipped it into her peony petal mouth. I touched her tiny lips. Like a butterfly wing, they were powder soft and delicate. She melted into my body for a few seconds until they lifted her away.
“She’s got one of the longest umbilical cords I’ve ever seen,” the doctor said, pulling it straight up over his head. “That’s a sign of intelligence.”
“Of course she’s intelligent—she’s mine.” Her father beamed and snipped the cord with the sterile scissor.
With that emancipation from me she began her ceaseless wail that lasted until they delivered her back to me later that night. She would have none of the hospital bright lights and glass-encased bassinets. My heartbeat was her white noise, my body heat her essential blanket. When the hormone shakes set in, I begged the nurse to hold her for fear I would knock her off the bed. She howled in resistance as the nurse whisked her down the hallway.
I heard bellowing at the end of the hall, her voice as recognizable as my own. With every octave pitch, my breasts ached even though milk was still in the production stages. This baby daughter had chunked off a piece of me and separation was unbearable.
The nurse delivered her back to me, red-faced and squalling, and she nestled next to my heart, her head tucked under my armpit like an errant puzzle piece that had found its home. My joy was beyond measure. I had two whole people to call my own.
It was more than enough.
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