“The only thing I want for my birthday is to be home together as a family of four,” I told my husband in the weeks before my daughter’s scheduled c-section and my own birthday four days later. 

You can probably guess where this is going. 

On the morning of my daughter’s birth, I curled my hair, did my makeup, took one more bump pic. We checked in to the hospital leisurely. I walked in unassisted, no pain, no contractions, no panic. Everything according to plan. 

I thought we would be in the hospital for two days max. But on the morning of the second day, the nurse noticed my blood pressure rising.

“The doctor wants to keep you for monitoring,” she stated matter-of-factly as my plans came crashing down. 

When we found out we weren't going home, we dressed our daughter for the first time in the outfit that should have been her take-home outfit. 

My husband suggested a photoshoot. Just her, because I could not stop crying. I missed my toddler son so much I couldn’t breathe and hated myself for not “savoring this time in the hospital, just the three of us,” like we were at some spa retreat. 

How do you savor an uncomfortable bed, an IV port, hourly blood pressure checks? How do you savor when nurses monitor for symptoms of stroke? 

Moments after we snapped her picture, the nurse popped in again. 

“Are you seeing spots? How’s your head? Any upper abdominal pain?”

She wrapped the cuff around my arm as my chest pounded, my whole body tensed, and sweat plastered me to the sheets. I could sense my blood pressure rising with every concentric squeeze of the cuff, silent numbers stacked against me.

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Looking at my daughter you wouldn’t guess anything was amiss. She wasn’t bothered by the eventual week-long hospital stay. She was sleeping and nursing like a champ with a “perfect latch” according to the nurses. 

She had the softest brown hair—like downy duck fluff. She curled into herself, a crescent of baby rolls—thigh creases, elbow dimples, rounded cheeks. I never knew newborns could be so plump. 

On the day we should have gone home, we dressed her in her brother’s onesie—the newborn size that doesn't look like it could fit an actual baby when you hold it up, but it fit her perfectly. Green and white stripes. A small lion. The words BRAVE embroidered across her tiny chest, urging me to push through my fear of the unknown. 

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Nadia, my girl, from the beginning you have been unfazed by the chaos around you. When you were an infant we said you had “resting unimpressed face” (not quite a B, but definitely unimpressed by our efforts to get you to reveal your dimpled smile.)

It was a gift that you nursed so easily. That you slept through the night at 7 weeks. That you let me schlep you around to mom’s groups and story times. 

Even now in the pandemic, when 2020 has stolen your playdates and playgrounds, you happily play with brother and create your own bounce houses out of couch cushions. 

For your two-year well visit, you confidently marched your baby doll into the doctor’s office, held her hand while the nurse weighed her and rocked your tiny panda mask. 

You are fearless in water. A skilled climber. And want to do everything Bubba can do. You are already potty trained, already in a toddler bed, already insisting “No I am do it” for everything from climbing into your cars seat to buckling your stroller to riding your too-big bicycle. 

I love your adventurous spirit. I love your bravery. Your tenacity and determination. 

I want you to know that it’s okay to be fazed
To take up space 
To be difficult 
To make your voice and needs heard
To make a stink about Bubba stealing your toys 
To be scared every once in a while. 

Our love for you is not contingent on your easy-goingness. 
Our love for you is not contingent, period. 

But I also hope you keep this graciousness, this openness and freedom. 

The way you give Aidan the toy that he really wants because you’d rather play than get your way. 

The way you ask, “Mama sad?” When you see tears well up in my eyes and you come over to “nuggle me,” placing your soft, dimpled hand on my thigh or shoulder. 

The way you sit still to take medicine or get pasta noodles sucked out of your nose. 

The way you still want mama’s milk before you drift off to sleep. 

The only thing that really fazes you is being away from me. In fact, you are a real jerk to dada and I do hope that changes. That you will let him comfort you, delight you, and delight in you. 

On your second birthday, baby girl, I just want to say I love you. I’m proud of you. And I’m thankful for the ways you're showing me how to be brave.