Friday the 13th. It wasn't quite business as usual. It was two days past your due date and I was feeling...ready! Little did I know just how quickly you would come into the world. We went to the doctor for a scheduled check up and learned that I was in fact IN labor and already dilated 5 centimeters! Woohoo! You would be here before the end of the weekend, my doctor predicted, and sent us on our way. We went home to rest up and no sooner than I had stepped my foot into the bath water, I was doubled over with a MEGA contraction. If you've ever felt the labor pains near the end of labor, you know what I'm talking about. There are contractions. And then there are contractions. And this was the latter. I immediately ran (read: I screamed for help) for Marty and told him it was time. Sweet man that he is, he loaded us up and we were on our way in probably less than ten minutes!
Just to give some you perspective on time, our doctor appointment had been at 8:30 a.m. We were home at 9:30 and we were checked into the hospital (after some screaming about giving birth in the lobby, etc, etc) at 10:01. I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say this: No meds, oxygen mask, baby on my chest. And the clock struck 11:00. That's right. A mere 59 minutes after checking in, you, sweet Jonah boy, were in my arms.
To be honest, I haven't really recovered from the trauma and excitement of that day. And I think that is a good thing. You see, something you taught me that day is that bringing a human into the world, and then subsequently sustaining them in a God honoring way, is a B-I-G deal. You weren't my easy birth, easy newborn, make mommy feel like "I got this" baby. And surprisingly (but really, unsurprisingly), you weren't your brother either. You were (and remain) completely you.
And in the long and breathtakingly fast trip that we've made around the sun since your birth day, you've taught me about bending my own will and my own needs to another. You've taught me that life isn't black and white. You've taught me that it doesn't have to be hard to smile and that strangers are only strangers if you want them to be. (You don't usually want them to be :). You are fast. You are direct. You are abundantly joyful.
You've also taught me that climbers are born, not made. You, sir, are a climber. I am not.
In this, your first trip around the sun, you have made an incredible impact on me, Jo Jo. I am forever changed and I am closer to Jesus and to your daddy and your brother because you expanded my heart further than I thought it could go. And in the throws of your colic, when I was denying myself milk and chocolate, I didn't think I wanted to be expanded. :) But I remain ever grateful that the Lord gave you to me. All the beauty and the sleeplessness and adventure that comes with you. What a gift to be your Mama.
Over the past few days, as I've cracked eggs and broken a mixer and licked all the spoons clean in preparation to celebrate you, I've thought about how baking is such a metaphor for life. Broken eggs, a jumble of flour and sugar and salt. Some butter and some milk. All these ingredients that splatter my counter and stick to my floor come together to make the tastiest treat. Isn't that our life? It's bumps and bruises and laughter and smiles. It's joy and it's tears sometimes too.
And it's the tastiest my life has ever been.
I love you, Monkey~