We were discharged from the hospital on Tuesday, March 8th. The morning was pretty smooth; My OB came for a visit and I thanked her for everything. Our pediatrician popped by and told us our little girl looked great and that we should bring her for an appointment in a few days’ time. Husband and I wrangled our tiny creature into her mint green “coming home” outfit and matching hat. Our babe? She screamed the whole time. As we exited our hospital room and waited for the elevator, she continued to wail. I felt my anxiety swell. Husband cracked a joke to the others in the elevator. It seems she’s not ready to go home, he said.

Home.

In the lobby, the guard checked the numbers on my plastic bracelet against the numbers on our little girl’s plastic bracelet and declared us free to go. We asked him to take a picture of us, of Mommy and Daddy and little baby going home. And he did. The picture came out a bit blurry. But that’s okay. Because this time in our life? It’s blurry. Beautifully blurry.

Husband jogged out to the street to hail a taxi while I waited inside with our little one. In moments, a yellow car halted and I went outside, lugging that car seat into the brisk March air. We asked the driver to wait as we strapped her in. He smiled a knowing smile. Of course, he said. And then he drove very slowly, far more slowly than most Manhattan cabbies. As we inched our way toward home, my eyes and mind danced from that little pink face, now slumbering, to the outside world, a world of trees and cars and buildings.

When the taxi driver pulled up in front of our home, I studied its sunlit facade and the rich brown of its stone. I took a moment to linger on the lines of the windows and the slope of the steps. A smile came.

Home.

Husband released the seat from the cab’s backseat and swung our little creature to the sidewalk. I followed, thanking our driver. Again, he smiled, knowing perhaps that he played a small, but important role in our story. Husband picked up the seat and walked toward our front door. I followed, watching the silhouette of the man I love – broad shoulders, legs long and strong – and that little seat dangling from his arm.

Stop, I said. And he turned. Will you put the seat down in front of our place? I want a picture. I want to remember this. This coming home.

And he did. He placed it down. And there it was. A contraption of gray plastic. A puff of hot pink. A tiny girl inside sleeping her way through her third morning of life. I snapped away. The result? An ambiguous shot. A contrast of color. An uncertain image.

But I’m happy to have this, this small and shadowy reminder of that March morning, this relic of our return.

Home.

Now. Now we are home. Ensconced in the familiar. Cozy inside.

Now. Now we are home. Surrounded by our creations. Buffeted and buoyed by old love and new life, endless exhaustion and bouts of exasperation.

Home.

It’s no utopia. But it’s us. And I love it.

Being here. Being home.

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Do you think home is rooted in place or people or both? Do you remember coming home for the first time after a big event (a death, a wedding, a birth, etc.)? Have there been times when you have been able to glimpse your home more objectively and appreciate it more profoundly?

Husband took this photo one week ago today. It was the day after our little girl was born and our second day in the hospital. I sat there in the mechanical hospital bed, in my tie-dye robe, cuddling my tiny creature, remembering how good it feels to clutch new life, to sniff baby sweetness, to be a mom.

It’s been just one week. I am too tired to tell whether this week has felt long or short. Truth be told, the days have been a swirl of blurriness and utter clarity, furious fog and keen sunshine. I am happy to be home, to be here in this euphoric and exhausting haze.

I am also pleased to be here again. At this screen. Last week, I pondered posting. You see, I have plenty to say, to record, to remember. But, ultimately, it didn’t feel right to write. Instead, it felt appropriate to keep the computer closed, to keep my hands and body and mind free to embrace my new bundle and my new life.

I still feel this way. I do. But I also miss this. This spontaneous carving of experiential sculpture. This connection with worlds beyond the walls of my family home. This interaction with all of you and with another side of myself.

So. Here I am. Back. Maybe for the day. Maybe for good. It’s hard to tell.

It’s been just one week, but what a week it’s been. A week in which I have fallen deeply in love with a new being and with a new incarnation of my family. A week in which my body has done miraculous things. A week in which my mind has danced and wandered and marveled. A week in which I’ve logged countless hours in that pose above, gripping novelty, kissing soft skin, singing hello.

Just one week. A week of compelling change and poetic surrender. A week without control or rest. A week full of tears and smiles – mine and hers and ours. A week full of life and love.

An amazing week. One I can’t quite capture with words.

But still. Here I try.

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Thank you so much to all of you for your lovely congratulatory words here at ILI and elsewhere. Though insanely shredded with fatigue, I feel so fortunate to be here, right here, in this raw and regal moment of my family’s life and to feel the support and love from so many of you. Thanks in advance for your patience with me as I figure out how to approach blogging (and all else) in this precarious and precious aftermath of my daughter’s birth.

Have you ever been amazed at how much life can change in the course of one hour or one day or one week? If you’ve had children, do you have any distinct memories of the early days that you’d like to share?

As some of you might already know (thanks to the convenience of email, text, Twitter and Facebook), our baby girl has made her debut! After an admittedly rotten week of false labor, she decided to join us at 9:31am on the morning of Sunday, March 6th. Turns out the ultrasound predictions of a sizable baby were right on as she entered the world a full two weeks early at a whopping and wonderful eight pounds and eight ounces and twenty one inches long.

Oh, did I mention that she is absolutely beautiful? And that she looks just like her big sisters did when they were born?

That is the short story. She is here. Gorgeous and healthy. Feel free to stop reading.

Or not. This is not a post I can keep neat and tidy and concise. Because I am here, in this stunning and wrought moment hours from her arrival and there is just too much to say, to feel, to remember before it slides from me. So, really. The rest of this? It’s for me. It’s for Husband. It’s for my three little girls. It’s so that we know what this time was, what it really was, what it felt like and tasted like. And if you are curious, or care, it is for you, too. And read on…

I sit here. In a big hospital room that overlooks Central Park. From my mechanical bed, I can see the gray blue sky over the buildings. Husband naps on a small couch in the corner, his face peaceful, his feet dangling over the edge. She, my newest love, is swaddled in standard issue stripes in a bassinet next to my bed. There is a pink card taped to the plastic. I’m a Girl, it says.

And she is. A girl. My third. And she is lovely as she sleeps, her eyelids fluttering, her lips pursing and relaxing into accidental smiles. She squeaks as she slumbers. And I watch her and wait. Wait for her to wake up and need me. Because she already does. She needs me. And it is overwhelming and exhausting and exquisite to be needed so profoundly, so utterly, so suddenly. I am a mess of nerves and hormones and doubts and dreams and fears, but even so, I am up for the challenge.

I should be sleeping. That’s what everyone says. But I can’t. Not right now. Because the sun is bright and this is a day and a room and a subtle but remarkable moment I will not get back. This slice of peace and anticipation, this quiet canvas of celebration marred with car alarms and baby coos and the thunderous beat of my own swollen heart.

I said it to Husband last night as we were trying to fall asleep. I said, It’s crazy to think she was inside me and now she’s not. I got choked up as I said this, this simple observation. And then I said something else, also true. I said, I can’t believe I might never be pregnant again. That I will never feel life inside me like that again. Again, the tears were there.

But. As soon as these emotions came, my mind danced to equally true things. Amazing things. She was inside me and now she is here. Here. In this little room. This big world. This family.

And she is. She is here. And she is a tiny thing, pink and powerful, but she already has me – and us – in her glorious grip. In two days, our lives have tumbled upside down. We haven’t slept. We are shaky and wildly tired. But we are also in love. Madly. Deeply. Uniquely.

When Toddler and Baby met their sister for the first time, they were a mixture of smiles and suspicion. As they peered over that little bassinet, I could see it in their faces, that something, that sense of awe and amazement and overwhelm. When they found out the bassinet has wheels, the game was on. They wheeled their little sister around the room. She slept through it all. And I watched.

And now. I am here. In this very happy and very hazy place, riddled with exhaustion and full of love, awash in tiny details of a room I will soon leave behind… The big beige rocking chair with the happy polka dots, the old school Zenith jutting from the ceiling, our bags and empty soda bottles strewn about, the soft sunshine of an early March day. I will not be here for long, but I am here now.

Soon, we will head home. We will pack our things and sign our forms. We will put our little one in the pale green onesie with tiny flowers. We will strap her into the car seat her sisters once used. We will hail a yellow taxi and say it: Take us home.

And then we will be home. And our old life will resume and our new life will begin. A life with three little blue-eyed girls. A life full of life.

That’s it for now. I must go.

And feed her. And make my way home. And live this life.

Alas. She is here.

And I am too.

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Thank you all so so much for sticking with me and supporting me during my pregnancy. It means a great deal that I’ve been able to share this experience with you. And now? A new story begins. A story borne from exquisite exhaustion, endless affection and the newest of life.

This week? It’s been a bit rough. Physically, I’ve felt yucky. Mentally, I’ve been off. Existentially, I’ve been a disaster.

On Monday, I was admitted to the hospital for an elective procedure to turn my baby. Yes, I know. That sounds weird. And it was weird. The short story is that the little baby in my belly has been a bit stubborn and was lying transverse (that’s sideways for the laypeople among us) and as I am due in two weeks it is high time to be head down. So. I went in. And, bizarrely, the moment I checked into the hospital, I started having contractions. Frequent and strong contractions. They lasted all day.

First things first though. The procedure (called an external cephalic version for those who care) was a success! This was major as this was my one shot to avoid a C-section. (I having nothing against the idea of a C, but my first two deliveries were vaginal and I would prefer that the third to be as well.) So… I am thrilled. Beyond thrilled. And very much indebted to my rock star OB. But the contractions? They weren’t as peachy. They had me weeping at points and contemplating morphine when offered. In the late hours of Monday, Husband and I (and the hospital nursing staff) were convinced I was on my way to having a February baby.

Not so.

The contractions, though mighty and miserable, were ineffective and I was told that I was experiencing false labor. Lovely. After a very long day, we went home. I scarfed Chinese food and watched the Bachelor. Not too shabby, I know.

But? I have been having contractions all week. I have been waking up in the middle of the night with them. It has been less than fun. I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday morning and I half-expected to go in and get checked and have my lovely doctor smile and say, Today is the day! Get ye to the hospital!

Not so.

I came home again. And that’s where I am now. Waiting. Riding out false pains that will one day turn true. Trying my hardest to be chipper and patient and failing miserably. I want so so badly to enjoy these final moments/days/weeks, but man is it hard when I don’t feel at all like myself.

I know. I know. It’s hardly a sob story. My baby is doing great and she will be here in no time. My family is about to expand and exquisitely. I am so close. I know.

But I wanted to be honest. With you. With me. This has been a rough one. I apologize that I haven’t been as good about responding to your comments and visiting your blogs. Alas, I am not remotely on my game.

Wah.

But, in that good old grand scheme of things, all is good. Very good. Despite these maddening faux contractions. Despite this whine-fest.

Hey, my baby is head down. Now I just need to keep my head up, right?

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Thank you for allowing me to indulge in a little old school complaining. Sincere apologies if this post contains too much information for some of you.

Any of you have any experience with baby-turning-procedures or false labor stories or super-whiny-pregnant people? Any guesses on when this little girl will stop faking me out and actually arrive? Any tips for mending my threadbare patience?

Dear You,

Any day now.

Any day now, some scenario will play out. My water will break or I will feel the stab of a no-nonsense contraction. And I will know. You are coming. Almost here. And here, this world we live in, this home that holds us, is a good and warm and silly space. I think – no, know – you will love it.

But for now you are inside me, a big bundle if the predictions are right. I will show you the picture above one day and I will tell you – as much as I can remember – what it was like to carry you, to feel you dance within, to anticipate unique and ineffable love. I will point out your cheeks, delectably chubby even at 35 weeks gestation. I will trace the curl of your little lip. Your slumbering eyes. I will say it: That was you. That is you.

For now though, we wait. For the time to come. For the moment to arrive. For you to decide. I am excited and scared and busting with joy. I am a mixture of profound impatience and the most exquisite surrender. This is not up to me.

I want you to know something. It is something I will tell you again and again. Probably too much. That something? I love you.

Already. Impossibly. Always.

Any day now.

Love,

Mommy

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Are you a patient person? How do you deal with the waiting game? If you have children, how have you handled the final days/weeks of your pregnancy/pregnancies?