You Will Always be My Baby Part I

Shelby 🌱

You were conceived in a tent, on a very cold night.

Before you existed, your dad taught me how to fish. I caught my first fish that night. Years later, a client told me that dreaming about fish often symbolizes pregnancy. We weren’t dreaming. We were living it. And you came anyway—unplanned, unmistakably wanted.

You are my best and most beautiful catch.

I was an Associate Manager at Mervyns when I was pregnant with you, in charge of Men’s, Children’s, and Home. My boss was… difficult. She hated my refusal to wear heels. May Jesus forgive her.

You grew slowly at first, which was strange considering what you loved to eat. We started with nectarines. Then they went out of season, and you demanded sugar—ice cream cake, cookies, old-fashioned doughnuts. To balance things out, I ate In-N-Out cheeseburgers. A lot of them. I single-handedly fattened my coworkers. Your dad can confirm this by the receipts piled in the car console.

When I was “fat enough” and ready to evict you, the internet told me tomatoes might help. Your dad came home to find me absolutely gorging on tomatoes. It did not work.

Princess, you were not rushed.

The day after Christmas, riding in the back of Grandpa’s truck on the way home from shopping, I felt it—maybe you’re coming. Back at the Yucaipa house, the discomfort wouldn’t leave. Grandma looked at me and said, “We need to tell the boys it’s time.”

We left around 11 p.m.—your dad, Uncle Kenny, and me—driving toward Zion. At a Chevron in Temecula (you know the one), I waited for the bathroom. Then warm water ran down my leg. Not something I could stop. Not something I could will away. You decided.

The clerk was rude. I left your amniotic fluid on the floor. And in a detail that feels spiritually accurate for you, one of Grandpa’s dogs had pooped outside the door earlier, and we didn’t clean it up.

You have always been unimpressed by decorum.

We arrived at the hospital. I peed again—nervous bladder. Everyone was called around 1:30 a.m. Family slept in trucks and chairs. Grandma and your dad stayed with me. Your other grandma ran in while I was pushing you out.

You waited until 1:39 p.m. to present yourself. They had given me morphine. You fell asleep. Then Pitocin. You woke right up. Forty minutes of pushing later, your beautiful face arrived.

A nurse briefly thought your swollen anatomy meant you were a boy. You were not. You were a beautiful, Asian-looking baby with lips so full they looked professionally done. Those lips are your dad’s gift to you. You will never need lip plumping.

You were the first grandchild on both sides. Everyone who could be there, was.

Your dad and I argued over your name. I won’t say what ultimately led me to it, but I will say this: your name was never accidental.

Shelby—willow farm. Earthy. Rooted. Flexible. Strong.

You are my princess of the dirt. You like pretty things, but you are the first to dig in. Dirt doesn’t bother you—it encourages you. Like the willow, you bend without breaking.

Firstborns are often burdened with expectations. I thought you were my hope and dream. You taught me something better.

You are not my dream fulfilled. Your existence is the dream.

Your life is your own. And I am so proud of the way you live it.