Exactly one year ago tomorrow night I walked into a small clinical room where a number of doctors and midwives attempted to usher my son into the world a little earlier than he would have liked. It was getting dangerous for him in there and it was time to give him a nudge. I spent a sleepless night on a horrible "bed" built for function, not comfort. I lay and listened to the reassuring and speedy lub-dub of his teeny heart on the monitor next to me. In the morning they jabbed me, hooked me up, plugged me in and began the wait. A showy, unproductive labour ensued and three of my favourite people in the world were there to help me through it, along with seemingly endless rounds of magnificent midwives who all helped me feel hopeful that I would achieve the outcome I hoped for.
But after two days of not progressing and of exhausting the poor stubborn little being who did not wish to leave me just yet, they decided to take matters into their own hands. Hours later, when I was at the end of my rope, a gurgling, wriggling little creature came into the world and I crashed into exhaustion. The next morning I met the most perfect and divine thing I have ever seen. My little Ari Morton Holland. Thumper.
And he we are one year later. And I have no words for any of it right now. He is just, my life.
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