Happy 15th Birthday, Miss M!

My darlin’ daughter,

How the time has flown! It seems like just yesterday I heard the doctor say, “It’s a girl!” and heard myself reply, “Are you sure?!”

We should have known, your dad and I, that from that very minute, you would be forever challenging us. Over the years, just when we’ve thought we had you pegged, you let us know we were – once again – way off base.

In the 15 years since your birth, you’ve grown into an amazing young woman; one who is both beautiful and intelligent, girlish and tomboyish, sweet and just a little sour. You are perfect in all the ways that matter. I am so proud of you, and so proud to be your mom.

I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be.

– Robert Munsch

*

“All babies should have a story,” my grandmother – your great-grandmother – once said, and this is yours:

On the morning of August 3rd, 1992, I had no idea that the little boy I was expecting was going to become my glorious, unique, beautiful daughter. All I knew was that you and I had a date with destiny, planned weeks in advance to ensure we did not repeat the…uh, lovely, experience your brother, PK, and I had had – specifically, we’d timed this caesarian to be certain I didn’t go into actual labor this time. (Labor is good and great, unless you have a medical condition that makes it dicey.)

Also assisting us in this adventure was the hospital’s bright and shiny-new maternity operating room. No more moms going into labor in the OR holding room while more emergent cases took precedence. No more panicked moms screaming at their docs that they would sue everyone in the hospital if their hearts stopped because of the idiocy of the OR staff. (Mom gets a little loud – and a tad irrational – when she panics. Not that you’d know…)

Dad and I dropped your brothers off with your aunt B. and your uncles, H. and J., and picked up Gramma Sue. PK, who was almost 3, once again requested a puppy, and RC – five and a half and almost in kindergarten – told us he didn’t want “no more dumb brothers.”

Your dad and Gramma Sue and I (and you, of course) arrived at the hospital promptly at 7am, signed the various pieces of paper shoved at us, and went on up to the L&D floor. Mom changed into the hideous, backless gown and hid under a blanket before being wheeled into the freezing OR. They like OR’s to be cold, for some unfathomable reason.

I had to “dangle” off the table so the anesthesiologist could insert the epidural. (Have I ever mentioned how much I loved the anesthesiologist and his lovely epidural? A few hundred times? Oh…) The first thing I noticed, which – naturally – popped right out of my mouth, was that my feet were getting warm. For some reason that made everyone else laugh. I still don’t know why.

Then they had me lay back, and …

Lucky for you (and me, too) I couldn’t see a thing. They did ask, but I refused the mirror that would let me see just what they were doing to my insides, and made sure they put the little drape-thing across my chest so I wouldn’t inadvertently look down and see something that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

My OB/GYN was supposed to be doing the C-section, but unfortunately, she was also pregnant and in that lovely stage where your tummy is never happy no matter how many saltines you feed it. Instead, she supervised a high-risk OB/GYN-in-training between runs to the ladies’ room, and was lucky enough to return just in time for your big entrance.

As I’ve already said, she announced, “It’s a girl!” and I asked her to double-check. She quickly assured me she’d had extensive training in telling girl babies from boy babies, and that I did indeed have a precious baby girl.

As the docs did whatever it is they do, your dad was the first to hold you. Miss M, you should have seen the tears slip down his cheeks as he held you. It was the most beautiful expression – awe and wonder and sheer delight. “She’s so tiny!” was all he said, as he held you like the most precious, priceless jewel.

Gramma Sue held you next, cuddled up tight. She checked your fingers and toes, brushed the little bit of ash-blonde peach-fuzz on your scalp with her fingers, snuggled you a little tighter in your blanket. As she handed you over to me, she said, “What a day! My daughter has a daughter!”

I wish I could describe that first moment. I’ve experienced the wonder of birth three times, and all three brought out the same and yet, unique, emotions. It’s such a complex web. Joy that you were here and that you were perfect. Awe that something so tiny, so delicate, so impossibly beautiful could have come from me. Wonder at the perfectness of your features, so like those porcelain infants the Franklin Mint sells on the pages of women’s magazines. Surprise that you were a girl. And shock – shock because we did not have a name for you. A “Nathaniel James”, you certainly weren’t.

All too soon, the nurses stole you for a few minutes to make their necessary measurements. Even at that early age, your scores were above-average: an Apgar score of 8 at one minute of age, and 10 at five minutes. I listened as they reeled off your stats: Five pounds, seven ounces. Eighteen inches long. Head circumference of 33 centimeters. Time of birth: 8:03am. (Pretty cool timing, that!)

It seemed like forever as I waited for them to give you back, but finally they did, and you and I were wheeled to our room. We called your brothers to tell them about you.

RC was thrilled you weren’t another “dumb brother,” and wanted me to tell your uncles that he was too allowed to ride his bike in the road. (which he wasn’t)

PK wanted to know when he could see you, and if you could eat dog food because he’d bring some if you wanted. A good start, I guess.

And that was where the real ordeal started: the search for your name. Your dad and I had been prepared for another son, and now, here we were, starting the name search from scratch without so much as a single naming book as a guide!

All I can say is it’s a good thing I had to stay in the hospital for five days. Otherwise, you might still be Baby Girl K. We tried name after name, but liked none of them. Every relative who visited offered suggestions. Amanda? Karen? Catherine? Renata? Renee/Renae? Amanda? Marlene?

“Dietrich,” I said, rather snottily, as the pain meds weren’t really helping and because your dad and I had a firm policy about using grandparents’ names: Never. (You name one kid after one grandparent, and you might as well name ‘em all after all the grandparents. It’s like kids and Easter candy – it’s gotta be equal or there’s fighting.)

Your brothers came and visited you for the first time. RC, having been through the “big brother” experience once already, spent most of the visit telling PK what not to do. He did give you a kiss, and consented to have his picture taken while he held you.

PK…well, he tried to sneak you a piece of dog food. Then he tried to leave the room with you, claiming you told him you wanted a walk. We finally managed to get a picture of him holding you, but we had to take it with with Gramma holding the back of his shirt, since he kept wiggling and wanting to stand up – as you lay on his lap! – and scared the dickens out of everyone.

By Day Two, the entire staff of the maternity ward was offering the names of their kids, their sisters, their wives, former classmates, former Sunday School teachers… Celine? Michelle? Morgan/Morgana? Elizabeth? Natalie? Jamie? Lynne? Sidney? Lindsey?

Time and time again, I pointed out to those who kept reminding me that, regardless of how correct he was that the baby would be a girl, we were not even considering using the name RC had suggested. I don’t care if it was a vision, or a sign from the Goddess, or if you really did tell him your name through my tummy at 5 months gestation, but no child of mine was being named “Sharon Rose.” Sorry, but I went to school with a Sharon, and I knew what nickname Sharons were usually stuck with.

Still, we couldn’t pick a name. Nothing suited. Laura? Laurel? Lydia? Amelia? Emily? Hmm. We liked that. Combined it with Gramma’s middle name: “Emily Elizabeth.” Nice. Oh, wait… Uh-oh. Your initials would be “EEK”?! That was your first name, for about 4 minutes.

Samantha? Gabrielle? Harmony? Anastasia? Cordelia? Cynthia? Valentina? *shudder* Anna? Marianne? Suzanne? Siobhan?? Hmmm… your brothers both have Irish names… *head shake* No. Everyone will say “Sigh-ob-han” not “Sh-vonne.” That was your second name. It lasted a whole half-minute.

Day Three. Suggestions are now coming in from relatives of the staff and from other floors in the hospital – Gramma has put up a “Name the Baby” sheet on her floor. Andrea? Faith? Hope? (“Love?” said Gramma. “Might as well get them all in.”) Candace? Hannah? Alys? Ava? Christine?

Day Four. Still searching. RC and PK were scheduled to go to “sibling class” in the evening – a tour of the maternity ward and little lessons on being around baby. Normally, big brothers and sisters went to class at the beginning of the month before Mom’s due date, but due to a conflict, the July class had had to be rescheduled. As a special treat however, since you’d already arrived, RC and PK would be allowed to show off their new sister to their classmates.

When time for class came, Dad walked your brothers to the waiting room where the other kids were meeting. After some time learning how to help Mom and Dad give their new siblings a bath or change a diaper, they got to color some pictures for the baby (or for their mom, if they were still having jealousy issues) and then it was time for the tour.

You were the last stop. I heard the nurse in charge of the group instruct everyone to hold out their hands for antiseptic foam, and had them put on little masks. Quickly, twelve kids ages 3-10 crowded into the room we shared, and each gave a little gasp as they first caught sight of you. “Hers so liddle!” said one. “Is my brother going to look like that?” asked another.

“I know,” said PK. “I wanted a puppy.”

The kids’ eyes – the only feature we could see – were wide. “Can we touch her?” several asked.

“No!” said RC and PK, who were – at that time – a bit possessive of you.

“Yes,” said your dad and I, “but very gently.”

Finally, they asked the question everyone was wanting the answer to: “What’s her name?”

Your dad and I paused. PK laughed. RC burst into tears. “Her don’t have one! Her’s never gonna have one!” He was beside himself, wringing his little hands, no doubt imagining all kinds of playground horrors if we didn’t name you something and soon!

Within seconds, we had small children offering names! One even offered the name his mom was planning to use for his baby sister. (I’m sure she loved that!)

Gramma arrived shortly afterward, to pick up your brothers and to drop off the list compiled by her co-workers on 6-South. Once they left, your dad started calling off the names on the list. Katie? Miranda? Ginger? *blech* Cheyenne? Savannah? Olympia?

“Good Lord,” he said, “Was there some kind of state tour?”

You were resting in his arm, your little head tucked into his elbow and your little feet in his palm. You were staring at nothing (or possibly the at a button on his shirt) and had your hands curled up against your chest in a prayer pose. I was half-asleep, yet becoming a bit desperate. We were leaving in the morning, and if I didn’t have something to put in the spaces on the green paper sitting on the bedside table, you were going to be officially recorded as Baby Girl K.

Fern? Danielle? Julie? Melanie? As I watched, you flung a hand out and turned your head toward your dad. He looked down and then up at me, and asked, “Did you see that?”

“Do it again,” I replied.

“Melanie.” And once again, you turned your head to look straight at your dad.

We tested this a few times, reciting a few names and watching you ignore them all, and then calling, “Melanie.” Each and every time, you would look directly at whoever said it.

You picked your own name!

We were so excited! I called Gramma at home to tell her about it. Told the nurse when she came in, and she tried it a couple times as well, before getting some of the other staff to come in and try it.

Of course, the ordeal wasn’t quite over. We still had to come up with your second name. Nothing really goes with Melanie, or if it did, it didn’t work well with our last name. Finally, we gave up for the night.

The next day, Gramma Sue came in and announced she’d been playing with something, and wanted our opinion. She grabbed a piece of paper and said she’d been looking at the family Bible, and had an idea: Combine the first three letters of your dad’s middle name with the first one and last three of mine to create a unique middle name for you. (Well, not exactly unique, but a unique spelling.)

We tried it, and loved it. The two names worked beautifully together and when combined with our last name. So, literally one hour before checkout, you finally had an honest-to-goodness name!

And that, my dear, is your story!

Happy birthday, princess!
Love you forever,

Mom