My water just broke

Well, no, it didn't really. Not tonight. But two years ago, right at this time, I was pacing the bedroom floor back and forth because my water had just broke and I was going into labor and I was shaking and had no idea what to do. I wish it was the happy happy story lots of moms have, but I was only 34 weeks along. My bag wasn't packed yet, I wasn't quite mentally ready for what was to come, and well, I was scared as shit.

I had pre-eclampsia leading up to that night. My blood pressure had been through the roof, and I was so puffed up from the swelling all over my body that my face looked like Stay Puff Marshmallow Man and my feet looked like giant muffin tops spilling over my tiny shoes. I was on bedrest, but I was stubborn. Things around the house weren't done and gosh darn it I was going to get them done. It was nesting versus health, and when you're inside your own body and your own head, sometimes you think you can just conquer anything and that there are no consequences. Well I'll never know to this day whether or not it was that last fight I had with my husband or all of the not-bed-resting I was doing, or if it was God's way of telling my body to deliver the baby before momma is in a dire life or death situation. I'll never know why my water broke that night. But little Poops was born at 5:40 p.m. April 12, at 4 pounds 11 ounces.

He was tiny and purple and the NICU team was standing by to take care of him as soon as he came out. He spent 9 days in the NICU. It was so very frightening that I still cry just thinking about it. But I look at him now and he is gorgeous and energetic, polite, and at the ripe old age of two, even funny.

I hear him from behind me when we're in the car saying hi to people on the street. "Hi, Guy!" "Bye, Guy!" "Yeah, Guy!" or most recently, "Hi, Poop!" or grabbing at his shorts, telling me,
"Uh Oh, Poop!"

Running to the front window on garbage day to wave at the garbage man going by in the truck ("Guck!"). Or "waking up" all his Hotwheel cars every morning by dumping them out of their giant case and greeting them with his pajama-clad self, matted hair and syrup on his face, "Hi Cool Car!"

Literally running laps around the house at full speed, and loving, with all his might, the idea of going outside ("Side! Side!") and playing with friends and eating ice cream and bathtime and Curious George ("JURJE!"). Riding around in the laundry basket with all the clean, folded clothes, as I pull him from room to room to put them away ("Next stop, bedroom!" "Choochoo!")

His smile is a fullbodysmile and his cry is a fullbodycry. Nothing halfway, for him. The way he lights up when he hears the keys in the door and sees his daddy walk in. Or when I ask for a "Big Aidan Hug" he grabs me tight around the neck and squeezes. And I am in bliss. There is nothing better than that moment.

So tomorrow we celebrate. With all his "gucks" (trucks) and "cool cars" and "big guck" (monster trucks) and "fye fye guck" (firetrucks) and cupcakes and friends at the playground and I will watch him climb and run and laugh (and who are we kidding -- probably cry) and blow out those two candles because it is two years since that bundle of joy came to me and changed my life forever. I love you, Poops! Happy Birthday my little man!


  1. Happy Birthday to Sweet Poops! And welcome to the Terrible Two's. Actually the Terrible 3's are worse. No one ever mentions that....

  2. Happy Birthday Poops!!! Hope you had a funtastic day!


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