Today is Ben’s 2nd birthday. A few hours from now, as my baby, my husband, and I are sleeping, the hour he was delivered will pass. Quietly, peacefully. Much differently than that hour passed two years ago. ¬†Without the haze of drugs. Without the quiet terror of being wheeled to an operating room. Without the breathless waiting for the first cry.

I have spent much of the last few months thinking on the journey from conception to birth to healing, for all of us. I have been facing the deeply rooted anger I have regarding my treatment both during pregnancy and postpartum. It is often tinged with regret. There are so many things I wish could have been different. Better. Gentler.

But no thought of my son carries any regret, ever. We decided to go out for pancakes for dinner, and I marveled at my baby – my little boy – as he munched bacon and forked scrambled eggs into his mouth. He has met every milestone, and displays a brilliance and ingenuity I never knew to look for in a toddler. He devours language with the fury of a wildfire, strides to physical challenges like a tidal wave, and projects the purest of emotions – all in the joyful and wanton manner of a toddler.

And I can devour it all with the bliss of a clear mind, a happy heart. Despite the history – perhaps even because of – I can find joy in every motion, movement, and moment. They are not all perfect, but I revel in the imperfections. A blueberry stuck to a onesie. A lock of hair curled wildly from a solid nap. An excited shriek in a quiet restaurant. They are perfect. He is perfect, in his imperfection. And therefore, so am I.

Happy birthday, little boy.

We are two.
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