I woke up that morning and brushed my teeth, and the sight of the toothpaste foam made me gag. I froze and caught my reflection in the mirror - wide-eyed, looking back at myself. My next thoughts were of a peanut butter sandwich. I hate peanut butter sandwiches. 7 am and I wanted one. I rushed downstairs to where I had a pregnancy test hidden away from a year and a half ago. It was still there, in the Chinese vase. I unwrapped it, hands trembling. Waited two minutes. Saw the pink plus sign. I went to the yellow room, soon to be her room, and knelt down and prayed. The kind of kneel where you can't get low enough, where you start on your knees and end up with even your elbows on the floor. I cried and said thank you and worshiped him. Then the wait began, and then finally, at last, the day came when we met our baby girl. So small. She looked into my eyes and I held her. She knew she was mine; I knew I was hers. And now, today, it's been an entire year. A year of dressing her in little dresses and tights, combing her hair, making sure her bow stayed put. A year of wrinkle-nosed smiles and little hands that clap when they're happy. (Or sometimes angry - when she notices herself doing that, she shakes her head no no no and shoves her hands down in indignation, as if they've betrayed her.) A year of monkey hugs and sloppy kisses, burrowing little blond head that looks for just the right place to rest. I thought that if I loved another, my heart my burst. I thought there could be no more room left. But from that first moment I knew of her, I felt my heart expand and fill and expand again. A neon heart made of those light tubes used in gas station windows, glowing bright pink, barely fitting in my rib cage. Wings on it too.
I raise a glass of whole milk to you today, babygirl. May God be gracious to you and bless you and make his face shine upon you.
3 weeks ago