Love...

When I was pregnant, many people told me I had never felt a love like this...

 

I couldn't quite understand what they meant. 

I knew love. I love my husband. I love my parents. My friends. My dogs. I love with my whole being. 

I found out I was pregnant after running the Pittsburgh Half Marathon. In that moment, I thought I knew love. I loved this tiny human. We loved this tiny human. We knew what love was.  

He grew and grew inside me. I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

And then something happened. Around 25 weeks we were told Wyatt had some unusual measurements and they wanted a second opinion at maternal fetal medicine. I loved that precious boy growing in my stomach. Oh how I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

At 26 weeks, we followed up with maternal fetal medicine. They confirmed something wasn't "right" with his measurements. They also saw something unusual with his heart and wanted a pediatric cardiologist to take a look to weigh in on his heart. I loved him even more, seeing him again. I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

Then at 28 weeks, we saw his heart. Oh how we saw that heart. From every angle. We were given a diagnosis, a scary one. Open heart surgery. NICU. Lots of people in the delivery room. I was being transferred to hopkins maternal fetal medicine for care because the midwives couldn't safely deliver him. I was scared. But oh how I loved that boy. I loved him more because he was mine & he needed me. He needed me to keep him growing and safe.  I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

Weeks passed. Lots of tests for me. Lots of monitoring. A few scares. Lots of ultrasounds. Lots of measuring. And lots of love, with a few tears thrown in for good measure (thanks, hormones). I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

And then, after weeks of conversations about making it as long as I could with him inside, he showed us he was ready to make his debut. You see, my boy has always been dramatic. A few crazy heart dips. Some weird measurements again. Crazy hair blowing in the breeze, er, amniotic fluid. He was telling us it was time. I loved him. We loved him. I knew what love was. 

On December 8th, I was induced. He didn't love it and neither did my body. Again, flair for the dramatic. You see, my boy only liked me on my left side and with a steady flow of oxygen. So on December 9th, after 16 hours of urging him to come out, he disagreed with our plan, and I was prepped for a c-section. He was telling us who was boss, and it wasn't me. I loved him. We loved him. I knew what love was. 

And then, I heard his cry. I saw him wiggle around. I saw his face. Felt his breath. 

I didn't know that kind of love until that moment. I loved him. I was his mama. 

 

They took him away so fast. I loved him. We loved him. We knew what love was. 

I held him. 

 

It wasn't until then that I understood this kind of love. It's fierce. It's intense. It's deep. This is the love I had seen before. You see, I saw that love when my parents looked at me. When my mom wiped away my tears. When my dad watched me play softball. When I danced around the room singing songs with him. That kind of love is fierce. It's consuming. It's deep. It's real. 

And now it's mine. It's my job to love this boy fiercely. It's my job to be his voice when he has none. It's my job to wipe away his tears. To kiss his forehead. It's a deeper love than I could ever have imagined. 

I often wonder what could be more incredible than the love my parents gave me. I found it. It's in my arms. 

 

This boy is love. I love him. We love him. We didn't know what love was until him.