I'm typing with one hand because the other arm is filled with baby. A narrow rivulet of milk runs from the corner of her lips, she softly sighs, and a sleep-smile flashes brief-- there-- just now.
She's beautiful.
Cadence Octavia arrived last Sunday evening, slipping swiftly into the world. She is a marvel and an always-been, both at the same time.
6 pounds, 10 ounces
19 1/2 inches from top to toe
dark hair
smoky blue eyes
heart thief
We couldn't have asked for a better way to bring a baby into the world.
At least, that's true if you're talking to me; John might quibble a bit, as he was sweating bullets before the day was through.
Our gorgeous, spring Sunday went a little like this:
Steady contractions two to three minutes apart during church, and two hours later, a wave out the window and a hurried "hullo" to an old friend and her girls, then a quick duck into the gas station to buy food for the dumb mama-in-labor who had skipped breakfast that morning, followed minutes later by a crippled van streaming fluids onto the side of the road, seven children running barefoot in a field, a state policeman who was not a jerk (and since he was one of eight children himself, understood why seven children would run barefoot through a field), many calls to find someone who would answer their phone and be able to pick us up; an hour after that, two vehicles to pick us up, a round of cleaning while we waited for the tow truck driver to bring John home, a speedy drive to the hospital, and then a walk around the block until enough doubled-over contractions made me want to be inside rather than out.
An hour (pain! more pain! ouch! GORE!*) later,
Polka'poose!
I bet everyone just skipped all the blabbering and scrolled straight to these pictures:
(in the hospital)
And I don't blame you. She is everything a baby could be.
It was a charmed day (except-- maybe-- for the nervous Papa). When our friend Mary arrived with the first rescue-mobile to drive a batch of us home, Susannah came running over to say goodbye and gave me the biggest hug. She was all dazzled over with excitement and said, "This has been SO FUN! I think this is the best day of my WHOLE life!!!" To her credit, I thought our day was pretty near the top, too. Days later, I'm still brimming over with gratitude for everything about it. An adventure on the ride home, the prayed-for gift of another natural VBAC without complications, and an evening that ended with her in our arms. Who could ask for more?
The van was still in convalescence the next day, so my mom brought the girls down so they could meet Cadence while the boys stayed at home with John.
They approved of the new girl.
John and I weren't able to leave the hospital until 9:30 p.m., so everyone was asleep when we got home, and it wasn't until the next morning that Aidan learned that some dolls are actually alive. He was utterly amazed by Cadence and kept making the softest noises of awe over and over again.
Over a week later, he still can't keep himself from stroking her head.
Zeke turned four on Sunday, and I present a funny sequence of pictures from his birthday breakfast.
1. Annika lights the candle.
2. The candle dies out while we sing.
3. Annika relights the candle, but to no avail, because THE REST OF ZEKE'S LIFE IS RUINED BEYOND REPAIR.
(And people say girls are dramatic.)
After we got back from church, I called Zeke so I could tuck him in for a nap, but he came upstairs with his hands full. John had turned his breakfast shake into a popsicle, so he finished it while standing on the bed and talking about his birthday.
Millie made Cadence a little headband for her baptism. It looked so tiny when she finished, but it somehow grew by the time it reached Cadence's dainty head.
Aidan tells me again just how wonderful this new doll is.
The best way to visit your father's grave for the second time, a year and a half since
you first stood there--that first and only time--bundled against the
bitter wind, throat tight, tears freezing as they fell, your eyes fixed
on the mound of freshly hilled earth in a heap near the box that held
his used-up form,
is here and now,
on
your birthday, on a midmorning when spring moves sweet and soft, out walking with
your husband and children and with the sun and great big blue above.
To
without warning or knowledge follow their feet down the first hill and
the second and to turn right onto the rutted path that leads through
what has been cow pasture and cornfield and is this day just a stretch
of dry brown newly greening.
With breath caught sharp
in surprise at the turn, tears splashing warm as you walk behind,
you'll watch winter-white limbs flashing over grass on the
path to your father's grave, where you'll stand with them above what he no
longer needs.
Best, too, to visit with a memory of a
dark-eyed boy fresh from the sea, who stood below you in the night and
snow throwing rocks at your window. Remember the sight of his head from
above, the surprise of it all, the first introduction to the family,
and, then, the escape to talk. Remember a winter walk down the
hill and a right turn onto that rutted path leading through a cornfield to a
graveyard.
Hold the memory of the snow, the stars, the piercing chill, and
his love, of a pocketwatch lost by a headstone and of its later rescue.
The memory of a dark-eyed boy who now stands beside you as a dark-eyed
man watching children spin in the sun. And you, with a baby soon-born
nudging your bones, a wordless reminder of Life over death.
I curled in bed and watched the gray flush peach and gold
while saluting the bird that would not cease outside my window
its unrelenting stream of staccato and pitch, and, there,
quiet and still, I thought of life and you.
You, who hold home and all familiar in your eyes,
with shadows that still beguile
and bind to what lies below.
And of our seven saplings- and the small one soon to come,
slowly stirring beneath the covers and my skin,
while muscles tighten and contract,
while I watch the light,
listen to the bird,
and think of you.
