This time three years ago, I sobbed as I lay on the bed in the birthing suite, waiting for you to finally arrive. My waters had broken 36 hours before and I was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. You were stuck, head turned and cord wrapped around your neck. Dad had been given a pair of scrubs and a hair net and was ready for me to be wheeled into surgery. I was frightened. You weren’t supposed to be here for another 6 weeks! Luckily, surgery wasn’t needed and at 8:40am, Sunday 15 June 2014 after nearly 4 hours of pushing and a procedure in the suite, you were hauled out and placed on my chest, where you lay silent, no cry, and still no idea whether you were a boy or a girl. The midwife came over and had a look at you. She grabbed you off me and rushed you over to the other side of the room, pushing buttons and raising alarms as she ran.
You weren’t breathing and were a shade of purple I had never seen before and don’t ever want to see again. Suddenly, the room was filled with Dr’s, specialists and nurses working furiously to make you breathe. I had no idea what was happening. Baba and Dad reassured me as I lay there panicking. “You had a traumatic entry, you needed a bit of help”. It wasn’t until a few months ago when I found my maternity book and read the notes that I realised how close we were to not getting to know you. You were stabilised and taken up to NICU but not before Dad looked at you and decided you were a Luke and not a Connor as we had planned. It was another couple of hours before I was wheeled up in my bed and I got to see you properly for the first time. Your tiny face was bruised and swollen with a cut from the forceps running down your forehead and through your eye. Three years on you still have a scar, but luckily no other damage from your dramatic entry into this world.
Luke, I haven’t stopped panicking about you since I found out I was pregnant. Once I got my head around the fact that you were in there and growing, I panicked that you wouldn’t make it through the pregnancy. Then, I panicked that you might not make it through the birth. The first night you slept through the night I panicked that something had happened and rushed in to watch your little chest move up and down with every breath. I panic that you might get bullied and then I panic that you might be the bully. I panic that you’ll struggle to keep up at school, that I make the right decisions for you and that you have the best upbringing that Dad and I can provide. The only thing I don’t panic over is the kind of person you’re growing up to be.
You’re kind. You’re empathetic. You’re so incredibly sweet. You’re cheeky and have a wicked sense of humour. You’re a fantastic story teller. You have a huge heart that makes mine swell with pride whenever I think of you. You have the world at your feet and I know that you will achieve whatever you set your mind to, whether it’s the rubbish man you so enviously watch or the Dr you decided last week you wanted to be. Whatever it is, know your Dad and I will be behind you every step of the way.
Happy birthday munchkin. I’m gearing up for a tumultuous year where everything will be bigger. Not just bigger tantrums, bigger arguments over dinner, bigger clothes and shoes and a bigger Luke but bigger snuggles, bigger laughs, bigger adventures and a bigger love for those who love you.