The Revenant

DEAR ANDY,

You’re almost 3! Your birthday is in two days and we are getting ready for Batman cake and lots of presents. My facebook feed keeps showing me what we were doing three years ago today. We had no idea you’d come so soon.

The night before my water broke, your father and I decided to go to a movie. We’d been told this would be our last chance to see any movie we wanted for a few years. We saw The Revenant, starring Leonardo DiCaprio. It’s a beautiful movie, but very dark and intense. In the film, Leo’s character gets attacked by a bear and survives. Completely wounded and disheveled, he has to find his way back to civilization to survive. As we watched in the theater, you were in my belly and you were going nuts. There was more movement happening than ever before. It made me nauseous. It wasn’t gentle kicks, it felt like tumbles and leaps. I couldn’t tell if it was because my adrenaline was rushing because of the movie, but something was different. You were trying to bust out.

That night at midnight, my water broke. Actually, it started breaking. It would be nearly another 48 hours before you were born, via C-Section. I called the midwife and our doula, both who assured me that it was most likely not my water that had broken. We went in the next day, and sure enough, the midwife confirmed it was my water. We had 24 hours to get labor started if I was to give birth in the birthing center.

Your dad and I were so excited and scared. I did everything instructed to get labor started: herbs, pumping, walking, spicy food, squats, water, yoga, Acupuncture, deep breathing, mantra, calling a Guru I love to help get me started… literally anything I could think of, to no avail. The midwife said I had to do the hail Mary pass of ingesting castor oil. That was a huge mistake. I drank an entire bottle of castor oil. Hard, painful labor pains started within an hour of ingesting and were stacked one and a half minutes apart. That would go on for the next 24 hours.

I wasn’t able to deliver at the birthing center. After all of my efforts to have the birth I thought I wanted, it wasn’t happening. You wouldn’t budge. You were starting to show signs of distress after 36 hours since my water had broken. I was developing a fever. I was exhausted and had been up for two nights with no sleep. The doctor told me it was my choice, but that it looked like they’d need to cut you out. I was worried about you. I was so tired. I told them I was ready.

You were born at 8:31pm on a Tuesday night. I don’t remember it very well. I remember feeling overcome with relief when I heard your cry. I asked if you were ok, and they said yes. I felt like I had served my life’s purpose. And then I felt like I was going to die. I felt just like Leo after the war with that bear. I was cut. I was scarred. I was bleeding. My insides had been pulled out and put back together. And I had a baby to care for. As the nurses spent the next 15 minutes trying to explain to me how to breastfeed, I struggled to keep my eyes open. The uphill climb was just getting started.

I’d spend the next few months dealing with the remnants of the trauma of your birth, and hormonal surges that led to depression and anxiety, plus PTSD. We could never get the hang of breastfeeding, and I was riddled with shame most of the time.

I want to state clearly that I have loved you since the day I knew I was pregnant. When I saw two pink lines on the stick, I was beside myself. It was Memorial Day and your dad and I spent the day indoors because it was pouring outside. We were talking and dreaming about how our lives would change. I was so excited to have you with me. I wanted so badly to keep you safe. I called my mother and told her that I felt like I was getting ready to go on a first date with the person who would be my soul mate. That was the best day of my life.

I’m supposed to tell you that the day you were born was the best day of my life. But it wasn’t. It sucked. Not because of anything you did. But because birth is real and hard and unpredictable, just like life. Birth isn’t something we can control, any more than death is. No amount of homework, mantra, yoga, or research will guarantee you have a “good” birth. I got the greatest lesson on the day (s) of your birth. I have not and will not ever forget it. That day I gained compassion and humility. I learned what I was truly made of. And it hurt, physically and mentally for months.

It might seem like this is not a joyful birthday post. But I assure you, it is. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am on each of your birthdays. Every year, I feel like I’m getting a promotion. This year, I’m going from being the mother of a two-year-old to being the mother of a three-year-old. Do you have any idea how proud that makes me?

The joy that some moms experience after the birth of their child hits me more every day. I spend these days marveling at the shape of your face and your green eyes, kissing you a little too much, and awestruck by the fact that I made you. My body was the vessel that brought you to this planet. How proud I get to be when I see the joy on your face behind a birthday candle. I made you, and not only that, I survived the bear attack, just like Leo did! I can think of no better reason to celebrate, than the fact that I created life, sustained life, and grew into the person I am now, all while helping you become the person you are now.

The New Oxford American Dictionary defines a revenant as “a person who has returned, especially from the dead.” Three years postpartum, that word definitely resonates with me. As do words like “Badass”, “Survivor”, “Warrior”, “Chingona”, and “Mother”. I promise not to make every one of your birthday letters about me. But progress is worth celebrating, and so is each year with you.

Thank you for being my reason, always. Happy birthday to my sweet boy, who loves Batman and quesadillas. You have shaped the woman I was into the mother you deserve.

Here’s hoping you return from darkness in every year of your life, and feel the joyful pride and confidence that follow.

With love and strength,

Mom