Five years ago today, my daughter Sarah entered the world at a little more than 7 pounds and 21 inches long. Today, she's right around 50 pounds and about three feet tall. And she's not here.
I carried her inside me for nine months. I loved her before I even knew she was a her. When the medical staff cut her out of my belly after 16 hours of useless labor, my first question was if she was ok. I remember Becca saying to me, "She's perfect." She still is perfect. But she's not here.
The nurses cleaned her off and gave her to her Daddy. I could hear the sound of Brent sniffling, crying like the proud father he's always been. I could hear that because her crying had stopped the moment she was in his arms, the special bond between a father and daughter already working it's magic. Because of the drugs, I don't remember the first time I held her. And I can't hold her now. Because she's not here.
I do remember her being brought to me in the middle of her first night so that I could nurse her. Everything was so silent and still. I held her in my arms, and sang "Desperado" to her, as I have many nights since. I won't get to do that tonight. She's at her Daddy's and she's not going to be here.
The second night she was home, I had a massive panic attack. It all became too real, too much. I finally got out of the bed, and with tears in my eyes, I told my mother-in-law, "I don't know what the hell I'm doing." She smiled and replied, "Welcome to being a mom." That was the best parenting advice I ever received. Because I quickly realized I didn't need to know much of anything. Sarah knew what she needed, all I had to do was be there for her. But today, she's not here.
At every milestone, every change, Sarah has led me. While I'm teaching her how to grow up, she's teaching me how to be a mom, and how to be a better person. She's grown into this terrific little girl. She's kind and thoughtful and giving and hysterical. She's creative and artistic and well-mannered and brilliant. She dances and sings and talks about poop too much. She wants to be an ambulance driver/police officer/dancer/obstetrician. She loves superheroes and My Little Pony and Star Wars and books and emojis and spooky stories.
Today, my little girl is five years old. And for the first time, she's not with me. But she will be in a couple of days. I'll smother her with hugs and kisses. I'll read to her, and play with her, and teach her things. And I'll never, for one second, let her forget that she's surrounded by people who love her and will always support her. I love you, Sarah Bethany. You're the greatest thing I've ever done.
