You Will Always Be My Baby Part II

Henry 🌱

You may not want to hear this, but your birth was calculated.

I hoped for you. So much so, that I encouraged your dad to have sex with me, which wasn't hard- "That's what she said.." (Relax. You can handle the gritty.) You were conceived in the room you know well in our Murrieta home. The sun was out. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.

I took the pregnancy test in the purple room. I walked out, laid next to your dad, and told him we were having another baby. He was thrilled. Then he went to work.

At the 20-week ultrasound, the nurse said—multiple times—“He has a weina.” The moment I heard that, I knew your name was Henry. I didn’t tell your dad right away because he enjoys arguing. I offered him Xander instead.

We asked your sister to say both names. She said Henry spectacularly. It didn’t matter. You were already Henry to me.

When Shelby was almost two, we went to the San Diego Zoo. I thought you were coming that night—early. I know now you just love the zoo.

You were built from steak burrito especiales from Rubio’s and a nightly orange juice. And when I say nightly, I mean required, or there would be suffering. For me. For everyone.

The last thing I ate before you were born was frozen yogurt, resting on my belly like a table. I told your dad to be ready.

You slept in.

Your dad went to work. I made Shelby breakfast. Then I took my very large belly into the shower, and my water broke. I knew it wasn’t shower water. It was you.

Your dad turned around the moment I called. We went to Riverside Kaiser. Grandma took Shelby. We waited. And waited.

I read Timeline by Michael Crichton. Grandma suggested naming you Merrick. He’s a good character. But he is not a Henry.

When it was time, I had an epidural and thought I needed to poop everywhere. I tried to cover my own bunghole. The nurses panicked. You were coming—fast.

Ten minutes of pushing later, they placed you—bloody, enormous—on my belly. “He’s a nine-pounder,” they said.

At first nursing, your massive baby hand rested on my breast and I thought, Am I nursing a giant? I am not exaggerating. You had the biggest baby hands I have ever seen.

You wanted only food and closeness. You hated the hospital interruptions. And then they circumcised you. You slept for hours afterward. I hated that. I hated the idea of you being alone.

I was nervous bringing you home. But the moment we got in the car, you slept. Your dad drove me through Starbucks for my first espresso in ten months. I looked at your bruised, purple-yellow face—like a tiny old man—and thought, This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever made.

Later I learned I had bruised your face pushing you out. I’m sorry. And also—impressed.

At home, you were calm. Safe. Still.

I learned quickly: you know where you belong. And when you don’t, you make it known.

You always have.