Twelve years ago, I was a carefree 21 year old. I worked at a daycare during the day and as a waitress at a local bar at night. In my free time, I bounded from pool halls to concerts to late night diners. There were hours of time spent surrounded by friends having in-depth discussions about solving world hunger or who really killed Tupac and Biggie. Our beer bottles could be heard clinking until all hours of the morning.
And then one day, I was pregnant. The collage of emotions felt overlapped and overwhelmed me. It wasn't time. I wasn't ready. How would I do this? Everything is going to change.
With each passing month, I grew closer to him. I remember the kicks. I relished the tumbles. It was an easy pregnancy; I had no difficulties or illnesses the entire term. I sometimes wrapped my arms around my growing belly, not just to support the weight, but in an attempt to embrace the child I couldn't wait to hold.
My due date came and went. I was ready. I was exhausted. The weekend came and I spent the day walking as much as I could. And at 10pm, when I felt the first twinge of a contraction, I knew he was on his way. After a few hours of waiting, I tried to get some sleep. And after a few hours sleep, I awoke, knowing it was time to get ready to leave for the hospital.
At 4:20pm, he was finally here. I cried. I swooned. I laughed at the scrunched up faces he made. Mostly, I realized that this wiggly bundle was now my life. And with every day that has passed, he has never ceased to amaze me.