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It’s crazy. You’d think that after nine intimate months you’d be able to say you know someone. And then the doctor presses down hard on your stomach, pulls carefully yet powerfully and she appears. You knew she’d be a big baby but not this big. You knew she’d have hair but not jet black. You were told mothering instincts would kick in, you had no idea how yet you’re already seeing that truth. You knew you’d be amazed but you didn’t think this state of wonder would last so long.

She’s mine. She’s ours. I kiss her cheeks every chance I get. I tell her her name again and again–now that she’s outside, I figure she can hear it more clearly. Ella. My daughter. I love her and have no clue what that means.

We counted down the final days, crossing off a number each night. We put finishing touches on the nursery that we won’t use very soon (but completion is oh so sweet). We talked daily about how our life together was changing. But there’s nothing to compare this to, this dazed reality that includes a much smaller stomach, itchy skin (thanks pain meds), and a new sense of privacy.

Creator God. Thank You. Thank You.

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