I likely will not show you this letter. If I ever do, it will be at a time when you doubt your strength. It will be at a time in your life in which you have nearly given up. And frankly, I hope you never have a time like that.
We have had a hard week, you and I. It’s been both beautiful and terrible, and it has made me question so much about myself. It has shown me so much about others. It has made me realize and re-evaluate central truths in my life. It has made me question everything. And most importantly, it has brought you, full throttle, into my world.
After a couple of weeks filled with “false starts”, I went into labor on Yule. We first went to the hospital midday on Tuesday. You were finally born Thursday morning. It wasn’t the easiest labor, but I feel so grateful for the wonderful midwife, Jabke, who guided you into the world, as well as for Aaron’s help, and the help of my sister, who upon arriving to pick up keys to our house and expecting to meet you, found us in the thick of it all. She immediately jumped into what we laughingly referred to as “nurse mode”. She has not disengaged from that in any way, even coming here today to help me teach you how to eat. Without their help, I’m not sure if we would have made it through as well as we did. I hope you know how very much your Aunt Erica loves you, and based on how you were interacting with her today, I think she may already be one of your favorite people as well.
I want you to know how strong and healthy you are. I feel very lucky for that, and even at three days old, your strength (and often stubbornness) leaves me in awe. You might be one of my heroes already, kid. As we got near the end of labor, both of us were running a fever, and your heart kept racing. The NICU team assembled in the back of the room quietly, and my heart sank. The second you came out, though, you began screaming, and I knew you would be okay. As it turned out, you were better than okay, your APGAR score was 9.9. More than one person in the hospital said to me, “That little girl’s a survivor.” and they are absolutely right. I hope that you know that no matter what happens in your life, you will be okay, and your daddy and I will be right beside you, helping you and cheering you on the whole way.
Our first night home went really well. We hit a rough patch yesterday and today, because you are having trouble eating. But we’re working on it. We’re learning, you and I, and we’ll get there. There is no giving up in this family, and besides, I don’t think you’d let us. We have spent a lot of time in the car, me in the backseat next to you, as you watch the light and shadows pass over your face. At night, you sleep in your Moses basket next to my bed, and when I drape my hand into it, you gently stroke my fingers in your sleep. I will always remember that feeling. We have also spent a lot of time listening to what I call “your favorite radio station”: static seems to calm you so much. Last night, I had the passing thought of galactic static, and wondering how much of what we were listening to was the result of transistors and wave frequency here on earth, and how much of it was an interstellar echo of the big bang. Though most of it is terrestrial interference from all of our machines and cell towers, I somehow think you may be listening for the latter. Always remember, Spoon, you are made of stardust, and you can do anything.
I love you.