Friday night, 11 pm. Husbandly One is still at work, but there is a certain eleven year old Son asleep in his room downstairs. A certain eleven year old who, when I went down to declare lights out and put the book down, said, "Mumma? I love you. Good night."
How did I get this lucky?
Sometimes I look at him, and am floored by the fact that I made this. At one point in time, this person did not exist, and then at another point, he did. And I did that. Call it biology, call it Divine Plan, call it luck of the draw...in all instances, it's a miracle.
I remember that, while giving birth, the room suddenly filled at the end: the anethesiologist came back, the doctor who had checked on me while my regular doctor was napping came back, nurses I had never seen before all came in and stood wordlessly inside the door. Between contractions and my team's bloody annoying shouts to "PUSH!!", I had time to think, "What the HELL are all these people doing, looking at my girlie bits when they are at their ugliest??"
I know I didn't say that out loud, because at that point I didn't have the strength to speak, I had been labouring for several hours or several weeks, not sure which, and my whole world was centered on the impossibility of what was happening to my body. But my nurse clearly read my mind, because when she had finished listening to my belly with her stethescope, and had taken one last long look inside my snatch, she said, "Everyone's here because you're so close, Irma. We all know it, and you need to know it, too. And none of us ever gets tired of seeing a brand new person."
A brand new person.
I remember that one phrase lodging itself in my brain. I wasn't tired anymore, I wasn't in pain anymore, I just wanted to see a BRAND NEW person. My brand new person.
And when Son was finally born, he was far more beautiful and wonderful than I could ever have dreamed. Such a perfect, perfect baby. All mine. Brand new.
And eleven years later, sometimes I look at him and feel the ghost of that moment.
All's right in the world.