Yesterday I spent the better part of the day flipping through books, perusing Google searches and mostly fielding emails and phone calls from friends and family. In my efforts to become more informed than the day before, my cup has runneth over. Many people have shared their stories with me and reassured me and I am grateful beyond my own ability of articulation.
In the midst of it all, this email came in from my dad. And for the first time in a long time, I cried. A lot. My father is a good man. And I am reminded that whether a person is 3, 33 or 63, we never stop needing the thing that only our parents can give us. One of the greatest dreams Bryan and I have for our baby is for him/her to know how incredible its grandparents are. I often think if I am half the parent my parents are, then all will be okay.
Dear Honey Bun: I read your lovely note and it brought back all those memories of the day you were born in GW Hospital, a month early and underweight, just like your bro. You were yellow and jaundiced and had to stay in the intensive care ward for a couple of days until your liver started to work right and clean up your blood. I remember you laying there, a yellow little peanut with a white knit cap on your head, pulled down over your eyes as you snoozed away in your glass enclosed box with bright lights glaring down on you to activate some process in your skin to lower your bilirubin. I suppose we would have preferred the movie version of the dream birth where a chubby, happy, gurgling baby stays in Mom’s arms all day, but that didn’t happen, and, frankly who cares: what matters is that the good doctors did what had to be done to make sure you were as healthy as you could be and we’re happy for it. So, 18 months later, when you were delighting your Mom and your Dad by stumbling around the living room in your Oshgosh overalls, flapping your arms for balance, and giggling away at the delight of it all, it just didn’t make any difference how you got there. Dad