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The next six weeks are a blur. We put in an offer, it’s accepted, we pack, we take possession, and my dad and Pat come down to help us move. They won’t let me do any lifting, so I watch as the three of them trek up and down the stairs, carrying box after box of our old things down from the attic and taking trip after trip to our new house. Boxes line the walls in all the rooms, and the stuff from the apartment attic gets stacked in our basement for us to go through later, when we have the time.
The baby’s room is a nice size, and the window has a view of the beautiful maple tree. I’ll be able to sit in here and watch the leaves transform into a blaze of red before they fall off for the long winter. This will be a nice room for the baby.
We spend the next week decorating and making things perfect. Nursery rhyme books are stacked neatly on the bookshelf, stuffed animals sit on the dresser, and an alphabet quilt is displayed on the wall. Everything’s ready. The room is done, the rest of the house is unpacked, and my major school assignments for the year are complete and turned in.
That night, right on cue, my water breaks. Scott grabs the hospital bag we pre-packed, and I turn on the computer to send my professors a quick e-mail to let them know I won’t be in class tomorrow.
“What’re you doing?” Scott demands. When I tell him I’m e-mailing my professors, he laughs and says I’m way too dedicated. “Who else but you would be thinking about school at a time like this?”
We go into the hospital at midnight. They assign me a bed and hook me up to monitors. Doctors stroll in and out, sometimes there when I need them and sometimes not. They don’t seem very familiar with my medical history or very concerned with my needs. They come in and check on me, but after twenty-six hours, I have to practically beg for a c-section just to put an end to the whole thing.
As I lie on the operating table and they stitch me back up, I silently take back all the times I ever complained about being tired. I didn’t know what tired was until this moment.
But then Scott brings a tiny, perfect person over to meet me. I reach out my hand, she takes hold of my finger, and I’m flooded with such love that I cannot believe I haven’t known and loved her my whole life. I silently promise her that I will do my very best to give her a good life, filled with happiness. Then I close my eyes again and know that everything is alright. All that matters is this moment, and everything that lies ahead.
The next two days are a blur of visitors, feedings, and help out of bed. By the time we’re ready to go home, the room is filled with flowers and gifts. Clothes and jewelry for Morgen and books and picture frames for me. My work sent flowers and a poem about how they miss me, my mom sent a potted weeping willow tree that we can take home and plant outside, and Scott’s mom poured hours of time and energy into a special recipe card box filled with hand-written recipes she has collected over the years. She hands it to me when she drives down to meet her new granddaughter and tells me that she had wanted to do this as a wedding present but didn’t have time, so she waited for the next big milestone.
One last gift is from my dad and Pat, who drive down separately and hand me the keys to their five-year-old jeep.
“You’ll need a family car now,” my dad says.
“Really? Seriously? You’re giving us your jeep?”
“Yes. You can sell your Grand Am to pay for the title transfer and registration.”
“Thank you,” I say. Scott looks as shocked as I feel. They follow Scott to our house, where he parks the Grand Am, and then Scott drives the jeep back to the hospital. When I’m released, he packs all the gifts and flowers into the jeep and heads to the home we’ve prepared for our daughter’s arrival. The fresh paint, the nursery, and the sweet decorations are all for her, to make her feel loved and welcome.
I spend the first two weeks in bed, sleeping, recovering, and spending time with our little Morgen. When I’m finally able to get up and move around, I venture out of the house and sit with her on my lap on the front steps, gazing across the street at a house that looks just like ours, but with newer siding. Another week and I’m able to buckle her into the stroller and walk the paved sidewalks. First three blocks, then four, and soon I’m winding us through the neighborhood. The sidewalks are rough and uneven, heaving in places from years of frost and neglect. I have to push the stroller out on to the street in several places, but there’s not much traffic on these roads. I recite poetry as we walk, and I point out the beautiful trees and the fluffy clouds floating by.
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