You weren't supposed to be my first born. Maybe you wouldn't have been at all.
I found out I was pregnant May 2007. That baby would have been born January 2008.
I took fertility drugs and shots, did invasive testing to check my tubes, cried (a lot). I wanted a baby, and the nine months it took between losing the first baby and conceiving you made me question whether it was possible to ever have children, or at least conceive them naturally.
And then one morning in January, a snow day, I took out a pregnancy test expecting to see the same stark white space that had haunted me for months. We weren't even trying that month. Instead a pink line came up immediately, and although I was scared, I believed you were sticking around.
I wanted to protect you from those first early moments. I had an accident at school when I was nine weeks pregnant, and I was so afraid that I would lose you. But you were happy, oblivious.
We found out you were a boy in June. I cried. I had always imagined that I would have a girl though in my heart I was sure you were a boy. And even though you would have made a pretty girl, I am so happy to have a son.
A few hours after mourning the loss of the daughter that you weren't, I embraced the idea of a son. We threw a party for our family and friends to announce that we would be having a boy. And I threw myself into your nursery, picking out the blue and brown color scheme, lining up a muralist to paint a guitar mural on the wall.
We painted the dresser that I used as a kid, replacing the white with the brown and blue and attaching star knobs. Mom sent me a box of childhood favorites, including a Bambi blanket that I had loved on throughout elementary school. The room was ready. We were ready.
The last month of pregnancy and the first months of your life were far from anything I could have imagined. But you survived. We survived. And as much as I wish I could undo it all, that story is just as much a part of your life, your story, as it is mine.
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