Big Day

I can hardly believe it and in fact find it easy to willfully forget – tomorrow is Hannah’s first birthday. In a blink she is turning into a little girl, as she insists on being constantly pulled up to standing and walked about, and is sprouting new teeth like seedlings in a gummy garden.

Hannah, when you were only a twinkle in my eye, I was terrified. You were a delicious surprise that your daddy and I dreamed about but had planned to meet much later. When we realized you were coming, the world got curiously silent and then started to roar. Everything was going to stop, to change, and we were terrified. The next morning we walked in the mountains and got a coffee in Canmore and I saw a couple with a tiny baby in a snuggly. My subconscious knew, and my heart knew, that you were what we dreamed of, an excuse to settle into a life of contentment that I had been consistently driving myself away from.

Months later, your daddy and I chose your name. We decided against finding out your gender by ultrasound, but somehow knew that you would be a little girl. We had books of baby names and I spent a good deal of time on the internet. I wanted something meaningful and beautiful, that reflected the Irish/Scottish history of your grandparents and great grandparents. We settled on Hannah, and today I was surprised to realize that I don’t know what it means or where it’s from. It’s because the moment we said it, it just simply meant you.

You also arrived before I was ready. I was convinced, typically, that I could work right up to the week before my due date and have that one week to get your room ready, my bag ready, my psyche ready. Again, you had other ideas, or at least my liver did. My doctor called and said that I had developed HELLP syndrome, which is cured by having the baby. I said “ok, when were you thinking?” hoping for the weekend. She said “how about tonight?”

The next day, I heard them say “It’s a girl!” That’s my strongest memory. When I first saw you, I was in a deep haze of medication. When I got to see you the next day, you were tiny, tinier even than most babies. Your skinny arms waved and your mouth opened and closed. You had a big bruise on your head from the vaccuum. You seemed to take to breast feeding, but only on one side, and only on your own schedule. You were incredibly strong, and incredibly stubborn if I tried to get you to nurse when you weren’t ready. For that first week I set the alarm for the middle of the night to feed you, and you fought it like a banshee. You would wail, turn bright red, arch your back and struggle to get free, though only days old. Your very wise Aunty Alice said “well, I’d be furious too if you woke me in the middle of the night! Wait until she’s ready!” I did, and we never looked back. In general, if you don’t want to do something, you let me know. When you wanted cuddles, you wanted them. When you wanted down, you told me. You never smiled at me, or laughed, unless I did something really funny. And you’re not the type of baby to find the same thing funny over and over again. I have to stay original.

You’re a remarkably happy and social little girl. You’re playing with a wooden rabbit and saying bu-yee. It also means birdie, and sometimes lamb or cow. Your favorite toy is a duck, and you cannot sleep without your favorite spotty blue blanket. I hope it’s tough because I have spent a good amount of time looking for another one just like it, but can’t find one. It has already provided comfort to you on nights when you’re fevered, nauseous, or have a runny nose. It is whisked away for a quick wash and comes back to you brand new.

You are the girl your daddy and I dreamed of. You are a constant source of amazement. When you’re asleep, we watch you on the monitor, or imitate the funny things you do. This year has been a complete joy for us, I hope for you too.