Two

Margot at a few weeks old.

My Sweet Margot Joy,

Today I reflect on the day of your birth, a cold, clear morning two years ago. I started labour at around midnight, and just breathed in the quiet dark, curled up against your dad's back, until I knew it was time to call my support team.

My midwife, Leslie, lived a good hour's drive away, and I remember my profound sense of gratitude at seeing the headlights sweeping across the wall as she drove up the lane way. We'd had it ploughed that day because we knew our time was near.

This was my third labour, so I knew what my habits were: I like to be left alone, with a wet cloth to press over my eyes through each contraction...no distractions, no music, no words of encouragement. I prayed that you would be born by morning, and once Leslie had checked me out, she assured me that I would, indeed, be holding you by sunrise! She just barely caught your sister Violet, so she too knew how things go with me in labour.

By very early morning, my Doula (your aunt!) Julie arrived; the atmosphere was peaceful and calm. This was my first nighttime labour, and I understood why most animals give birth at night. We called your Nanny, and your aunt Lana, to let them know they should head out soon if they wanted to be part of this birth. Aunt Lana took this photo of the homestead as they came up the road in the dawn light:

Wisps of smoke from the chimney, house warmed to welcome a new babe.

Once I got into the bathtub, it didn't take long to reach the "pushy" stage. Violet was awake by now, and watched from the bedroom door, secure in Nanny's arms. Jude was snoozing away, in spite of the noise and activity just below him.

Then, there was you...my beautiful dark-haired girl, so different from your siblings, but decidedly MINE. I asked over and over if everything was okay, and I wonder now about mother's intuition; it would be 7 weeks before we'd realise that your tiny heart was in trouble.

But on that early morning, there was just you, in bed with your mom and dad and sister, and soon your brother; he woke up minutes after your birth. That bed was all that existed for me that morning, full of the man I chose and the children we created together. The tree outside the window stood bare, its empty arms reaching up to the late-winter sky. But were my arms full? You betcha.

Papa arrived to meet his new grandchild, then appointed himself head chef, cooking a big country breakfast for the tired support team. The sun rose, brilliant in a clear sky, and although I'd been left upstairs to rest and nestle in, I was drawn downstairs by the smells of coffee and bacon, and the lively chatter that travelled up the stairs. I settled into the wing back chair beside the wood stove, and basked in that I-just-birthed-a-baby bliss.

Tired daddy.

The weeks that followed are a blur now, of attempting to nurse while small children climbed up for a story, trying to pump to keep my milk supply up, struggling to figure out why you weren't gaining weight, and the realisation that something was, indeed wrong.

I had to record you as a presence in this family; I feared you might not live through your surgery.

Margot at exactly age one.

My Margot. Now you are two. There was a time when I wasn't sure if you'd make it here, and today I feel more than the normal joy and gratitude at milestones reached. I suppose it will always be this way, that whisper of "what if..." that casts a brief shadow over my heart.

You are aptly named, my wee wrestler, early morning song-singer, book-lover, belly-laugher, and wordsmith. You love your knitted blanket, nursery rhymes, listening to CBC in the van, other babies, and your Nanny. Your blue eyes contain so much soul and intelligence, and your curls can melt hearts.

Your love came unexpectedly, and we are so grateful for this surprise of your presence; we accepted you with joy and are thankful every single day that you chose us to parent you.

Happy, happy birthday, my girl.

Love,
Mommy