A Love Letter

Dear Kinsley,

Your Dad loved you immediately after hearing that you were on your way to us. He was excited for the ultrasounds and happily let me take his big ol' mitt and place it on my stomach, grinning when he felt your kicks or could see the steady vibrations from your hiccups. Me, I wasn't so sure. I was cautious: I knew what came with having you and the darker side with hormones abruply ending once you met us in person. I was prepared for postpartum to come in fast and hard and that we wouldn't bond immediately as I knew that the maternal gene wasn't something that was laced into my DNA. It would take time, I warned myself: time for us to get to know each other, time to solidify this love.

As planned as you may have been, through conception and even for your birth, you still decided to come on your own timeline. My blood pressure, although beautiful the whole time inside of me, skyrocketed when you hit 38 weeks. I anticipated the physicians to bump up your cesarian date, but your Dad's eyes bulged and he yelped "what!?" when he asked if shit was gettin' real, and our doctor responded with "today, real". From then onwards, your Dad admits he was in a traumatic state. From waiting to be brought into the operating room, to the catheter and epidural, I had that same adrenaline as I did when I was about to go tandem skydiving where people were distracting me and cheering me on, and everything was out of my control. Finally there was a point, where I blatantly accepted that my life, and yours, was out of my hands. 

Our medical team did a beautiful job with ensuring that you were safe and that I was safe, despite a blood transfusion and a very soft uterus. Being awake in surgery was watching a brilliantly choreographed production where the doctors were nothing but calm and organized. My blood pressure went from very high, to quite low, which is why no ativan was needed. Your Dad's opinion of the whole ordeal was retold drastically different, with blood loss, plummeting blood pressure and a power bump with, rest assured, a generator. He said that concerns also came when I asked if I could go to sleep, and also when he did not hear you crying - everything seemed to take a bit more time. 

At my insistence, we ignored the traditional path to newborn hospital viewings; I was worried how the tole the cesarian would take on me physically and mentally and how having you would change everything about me. And it did. 

At one point before the surgery, to ease my worry, your Dad promised that it would be over soon. "Yes," I responded in an almost whisper, "but then we will have a baby".

And so, I was unapologetically messy in the hospital, where everyone, including the kitchen staff, saw my boobs, where I was topless for the entire five day stay, learning how to breastfeed and worringly waiting for my milk to come and nourish you. I cried next to our favorite nurse, when you cried, on a particular messy night, when neither of us were pooping. And when she calmed both of us and you finally pooped, I quite seriously asked her to come home with us.

You have all of your Dad's features - it's biology, I know, but it's still So wild. From your facial expressions, your hair and your sleeping positions, you look exactly like your Dad. And I hope you have his calm demeanor and wild & free spirit. I gave you my non-existent eyebrows and hiccups. Hopefully, with time, you will make educated decisions, due to my genes, and not just spontaneous reckless moments, courtesy of your Dad's. 

We laugh at your man farts and partial sneezes when you can't quite get that third one out. I've never talked about poop so much in my life until you. Drops of milk follow me around wherever I go, because whenever you cry, my boobs cry in return.

Kinsley, I'm going to take all the credit for choosing the best partner and Dad for you - he finally got his bestie, his side kick for wild adventures. He will be off work and with us until the end of October, and he love you as much as I love you, maybe more. He speaks calmly to you when you're screaming and we just don't know why. He is so excited when he sees you, even at 3am when we're being driven from mad from exhaustion and confusion. He's so good with you, and far more comfortable with you. He was made to be your Dad.

And I prayed for full hands, when. It's a kind of fierce love that I have never felt before. I've never felt so fortunate to have been given you, or so worried that something might happen to you. Sometimes I catch this love turning into anxiety. These wild concerns over breastfeeding and you getting enough milk never cease to leave my thoughts. I will regularly wake up your Dad for him to confirm that you're still breathing, and each time he calmly says yes, knowing I need this reassurance. I knew I would be tired, but I didn't know such worry would come with it. When I admitted this to my doctor, she, having three of her own, agreed and said it's because there's so much at jeopardy: you. And when I asked for my anti-anxiety medication to be increased shortly after bringing you home, because the fear of you getting sick is something I can't unthink, she nodded and said of course, with the state of the world it makes sense. When I bring this up to your Dad, again and again, and I want to shut the world out to protect you, he gently reminds me that you deserve to be celebrated and loved and seen. And I can't argue with that.

Love, 

Your mom.

The first day of your life, Kinsley River MacLeod was the best of ours.