Ingies n' Things

Dear Roo,

I found out I was pregnant with you on Daddy’s and my 2nd wedding anniversary. That day also happened to be Daddy’s 33rd birthday. We lived in a tiny house with one very tiny bathroom. The conversation went something like this:

Me:  “Happy Birthday, honey!”

Daddy: “Thanks.”

Me: Pause. Pee on a stick. Wait.

Me:  “Uh, honey, I think I’m pregnant . . . “

In hindsite I probably should have waited until Daddy was out of the shower to make the announcement so I could see his reaction. As it was all I got was . . .

(Silence.) Prolooooonged silence.

Me again:  “Honey?”

and again:  “Hello?”

He knew we were trying to get pregnant. He just had no idea it would happen the first time we tried. He was in shock.

That’s ok. Telling Auntie K made up for it. She was beside herself . . . there were happy shrieks, a lot of talking, maybe some happy tears . . . now that I think about it I probably should have waited to tell her in person, too. That way maybe I would have understood at least part of what she said.

But I digress.

I spent approximately 282 days pregnant. Give or take. I know because I kept track of the weeks – and then the days – on the shower wall with finger paint.

And then my water broke.

And then we got to bring home this:

The best prize EVER!

(Some details of the event may have been censored to preserve my dignity and keep Daddy from having to relive the trauma of labor and delivery.)

Ooooo – may baby girl! Where is that box of tissue?!?

And you grew and you smiled and you slept (occasionally) and you screamed (a lot) and your eyes were that common newborn dark blue.

But here’s the freaky thing.

They stayed blue.

Blue!

Not once, not one single blessed time during the 282 days you were jumping around in my uterus; not once during all the “I wonder what she will look like?” conversations; not one single time ever did I imagine that my olive drab eyes and Daddy’s hazel eyes would produce a blue-eyed child.

But they did.

Courtesy of two of your greats, Gran Gran and John. One from Daddy, one from me.

And lest your brown-eyed brother think I’m glorifying blue eyes I had no (read zero, zip, zilch) preference or hope about eye color. I assumed your eyes would be a lovely shade of either green or brown.

I was wrong. 

Instead, I’m left in awe of genetics.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

I love you to your bones, Roo Roo.

Mama

P.S. We told Grannie Pie and Pawpaw you were on the way in the airport parking lot when they came up to visit that September. We pronounced Grammie a grandmother with flowers.