Smiles

She smiled at me tonight.

Evelynn has smiled before. Real smiles, too. But this was the first time she smiled AT ME. And it wasn't a passing smile either. It was a long smile. She was falling asleep in my arms and I touched her cheek and she smiled at me. Really big and beautiful, she gave that toothless grin that makes her look so contented. I wish to the highest heavens that I could have taken a picture of that smile to show everyone. I suppose I'll have to be satisfied with my mental picture.

Then she closed her eyes and the smile went away. When I got over my momentary giggling bout, and ceased kissing her soft, pudgy cheek, I said, "Mama loves you." And she smiled at me again.

Motherhood

I'm a mom.

It's kind of a simple thing to say. It probably carries a lot of differing ideas for people depending on what kind of mom they had. I feel like I've suddenly aged or matured or something. It happened all at once. It wasn't a gradual increasing. It was a massive leap, and I'm not sure exactly when it happened. I wasn't a mom; now I am. That part has a definite time; but when did it happen internally? I'm not sure. I feel like someone very different.

And at the same time, I feel . . . too young. I wonder how in the world I'm mature enough to be living in an apartment 2,000 miles away from my parents. I wonder how I can possibly be old enough to have been married for nearly two years. I wonder when exactly it happened that I ceased being a teenager.

I'm a mom??? Yeah. I'm a mom.

And an overprotective one. I've never wanted to hold other people's babies. It's not that I dislike holding them, but I've never seen someone else's baby and wanted to hold it. Usually I accept when they offer because I would feel rude saying, "No, I don't want to hold your baby." That's just not what people do. Sometimes, I accept because I want an unhindered view and holding a baby is the best way to see them.

However, I find that I don't want anyone else to hold my baby. I don't like it when aunts and uncles hold her for more than a few minutes. I don't like handing her off to church people at all. I'm okay with Grandparents having her for a bit longer, but that has its time limits as well. When there are people around, I'm good with me or Zack and that's about it.

I don't really feel like that's a bad thing, although I suppose at some point I'm going to have to be able to leave her with other people. . . . Maybe by that time I'll be less clingy. Haha. I've heard of kids having separation anxiety, but I wonder if it's common in mothers, too. I certainly get it.

It's so weird. I have a labor story. I have a birthing story. I could give people nursing advice or at least inform them of things that were problematic for me.

We're not just a couple anymore; we're a family. It's a funny thing - I can hardly wait for the next one. No, I don't want to be pregnant again. No, I don't want to go through labor again. No, I don't really want to have another birthing story. But I do want our next addition. 'Cause I'm a mom now.

In the Dark

Schedules are pretty important. I like having a schedule, even if it's a loose one that can get tossed in the air. I like having a plan. 

But sometimes, plans just fall all to pieces. I had plans for how childbirth was going to go. I had expectations (which, looking back, was really dumb, since this was my first time) about how things were going to go and I had plans for how I wanted to deal with it.

Well, nothing went according to plan. Sunday, October the 28th was the longest, hardest, most exhausting day of my life. It was, to be perfectly honest, a horrible day. I ceased to be able to think, I quit trying to care about things like not getting an epidural - all I wanted was to sleep, and I'd have settled for getting knocked out or dying. But it didn't matter. I was pain-free, completely numbed from the waist down, worn out to the point of crying over everything and nothing, and I still could not sleep.

It was not a happy day; but it was a good day. It was the most trying day of my life, and I failed a lot that day. I fell to pieces so many times. I reached the point of wanting to die. I couldn't think of how to pray for anything, so I laid there praying, "Help me. Oh, Father God, please help me."

My little girl came that day. God did help me. Zack was amazing. It was good; it was over; things were getting better; we were back on schedule.

And then they came in and told us that Evelynn's bilirubin count was too high and she needed phototherapy. And it all happened again. My plans, my schedule, my ideas for how things were going to go - it was all gone, and I was standing next to her bassinet for the next three hours trying to console my baby.

There's been no schedule since then. There's been no plan, and I hate it. And I know I shouldn't, because there is a plan - I just don't know it. There's always been a plan, a plan far better than mine.

We don't like being in the dark. When Evelynn had to stay in those lights, she had to wear these goggles to protect her eyes. It was the goggles more than anything else that she hated. She hated the dark. But it was best for her, and she was better off when she trusted Mom's and Dad's voices and was still.

I'm in the dark. I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know where we're headed and there are too many scary things that I can imagine. I don't have a schedule and I don't know how to get one back. And every time I try to plan, it falls apart on me. I have lost everything that I was going to do for her. The real kicker is that SHE doesn't seem to be any worse off for it. It just makes me feel like I'm failing.

So I'm going to try to do what I wanted my little girl to do that day; I'm going to try to rest in God's words; I'm going to try to lie still in the dark for as long as He says I need it; I'm going to try to trust His hand as it firmly pulls my goggles back in place.

And I'll probably be freaking out later today and need God to hold my hand and whisper, "Shhhh, it's okay, little girl. I'm right here."