i thought i loved you

Patricia Mirembe… 

In a few years, we are going to watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas and you will see an amazing transformation when the grinch’s heart grows several sizes so his capacity for love increases. Part of me hates to say I can identify with the grinch, but sweet girl, let me explain to you how you have grown my own heart in the past nine months. 

I thought I loved you when I found out I was pregnant. At that point, you were the size of a blueberry. I knew you existed and your little cells were rapidly multiplying, but by then I was more in love with the idea of you because it was hard to imagine you as more than just an idea. I couldn’t see you, feel you, hold you, or care for you. I thought I loved you, but then… 

I felt you move inside of me. You became so real. You were not just an idea—you had a body that I could feel. You were undeniably there. Every day I would feel your flutters in my abdomen and be reminded that your little life was growing, developing, barrel-rolling… and my heart grew. I thought I loved you, and then…

You grew. Imagine that! Week by week, photo by photo, I could see my circumference getting bigger, and for the first time in my life I celebrated that fact. You moved more and more regularly, to the point where sometimes I would tell you to be still because you were distracting me from a sermon or a book or a student. (For the record, you never listened.) I cherished our moments together, the two of us sharing a bond that no one else could enter. Even before meeting you face to face, motherhood was such a sweet thing. The bigger I became—the bigger you became—the less I saw you as an idea and the more I saw you as a human—our human. I loved you, little human. 

I thought I loved you when we came to the Netherlands to prepare for your arrival. Knowing that we could meet you face-to-face any day made us the best kind of anxious. I loved being pregnant, but I was ready to see you, to know you. I was ready to actively be your mother. I loved when people would compliment my stomach because they were complimenting you. 

Last Monday when I went into labor, I thought I loved you. You were finally coming. It was scary, and it was new, and oh man, was it painful. People had been telling me I was in good shape and have a high pain tolerance and that I could do it. They may have been right, but I still underestimated the pain and the effort. My longest, hardest run ever was nothing compared to one-and-a-half hours of trying to push you out. Especially in the last thirty minutes, between every contraction and every push I prayed to God that the next one would be the last one—not because I was anxious to meet you, but because I was exhausted and wanted labor to be over. But before I prayed that prayer every time, do you know what I said? “Thank You, God, for this child of ours.” In the hardest time, I wanted you. I loved you. 

As soon as you made your appearance and they laid you on my chest, I knew the love I had for you in the womb was nothing compared to how I felt then. You had eyes! You had a cute little nose! You could wiggle and squirm and I could see your limbs moving! You looked disgusting and beautiful all at once and in the middle of the pain and the effort and the relief and the excitement, I could not help smiling—not because the hard part was over, but because of you. You were there. I was holding you. When I saw the photos from those moments, I was surprised at how profoundly happy I looked, and it was because of you. 

Well, then they cleaned you up and you turned from blue to pink and when you weren’t covered in slime anymore you became a whole lot cuter. After a while the midwives left, the maternity help left, your grandparents left, and we laid you in your bed for the first time. From two feet away in our own bed, we could hear you sucking your fingers. We could hear you breathing. We could hear your coos and whimpers. At one point I realized that was the farthest you had ever been from another human being. I felt my flabby, awkward stomach and I missed you. I loved you so much that two feet was too far away. 

Over the next days, we learned the first things about how to care for you. We bathed you. I fed you. We took turns carrying you around the apartment in the night while you screamed and we wondered if the neighbors would ever forgive us. The day after you were born, we agreed that if you were put in a lineup of babies, there was a high chance we wouldn’t be able to pick out your face from the others. Now, after spending a week staring at your precious face, we have memorized every line, every half-smile, every pre-fuss contortion. For the ten minutes a day you are awake enough to open your deep blue eyes, we fall headlong into them. Without even trying, you have captured our hearts, sweet one. 

I thought I loved you in all those moments… and I did. I did love you. But now, you are one week old and curled up on my chest. Sometimes I can hear you breathing and sometime I have to put my hand on your back and feel your little body move up and down to assure myself that you, who seem too good to be true, are in fact real. Your cheek rests on your hand and I could not have posed you better myself. From my perspective, your button nose sticks out just a bit and I can see your top lip, but your Berkman chin is pushed in too far to be visible. Mirembe means peace, and you embody that. I cannot imagine anywhere else I would rather be right now and I know that the love I felt for you before is nothing compared to this. I find your twenty inches and eight pounds utterly overwhelming… and I love it. 

You have grown my heart in the best of ways.