The operating room was yesterday and also two centuries ago and when I close my eyes and think about it I see this: the same tobacco-smelling nurse with the crepey smiling eyes that was there for Jude’s birth, the two small and serious black haired anesthesiologists with flowered pants under yellow smocks, the smell of burning skin, cauterizing something I didn’t want to know about.
I started tearing up the moment they finally got the IV into my rolling veins. They wheeled me into the cold edged operating room several dozen minutes before they let Corey in and I was panicking, craving his impenetrable calm in stressful situations. I was distracted by the clamp on my thumb, the obscene amount of time it seemed to take to slice into my stomach, the desperation I felt to finally meet the baby girl I already knew in my heart.
When Summer Juliette was born, there was a small, almost delicate wail and then Corey was ushered away and the pediatrician took some photos with my old Canon.
I’d had a dream the night before and it was vivid and not what you could call good and I recalled that dream minutes after Summer was born and couldn’t stop myself from bellowing through the serious silver cutters and whizzing life savers:
“It’s not a tiny Asian boy with eyes on top of his head? Is it?”
The nurses looked at Corey with confusion and I’m sure adrenaline and temporary insanity were contemplated and no one answered me and then they brought me my girl.
She’s an angel baby. She cried when she came into our world, briefly, and has barely cried since. She sleeps all through the night and she takes in her Universe with her tiny wizened little face and she looks worried, except when she smiles and then my heart explodes with the incredible miraculousness of it all. Even after three babies. The magic doesn’t wane.
Summer is 7 weeks old now and stay at home motherhood deserves a CFO salary and Jude is totally crazy and thank GOD for Nolan, is all I have to say about our current situation. There’s a reason this blog hasn’t been updated in weeks.
I have diastisis recti again, and also a pretty messy belly button and in the grand scheme of wars and debilitating diseases and the ocean rotting, it’s ridiculous that I even notice this but I can only directly influence the meaningless things and so I’m planning to document my progress back to a normal belly again on here because: goddammit, it’s irritating to still look pregnant in your stomach when you’re fit everywhere else. Also it’s easy to bang out quick posts about food and exercise, easier than trying to eke anything interesting out of my days of diapers and tantrums, anyway.