Written while rocking Ava at 2 am. Edited one week later. :)
Today, August 1, was my six-week postpartum appointment since Ava arrived. The morning was literally a whirlwind, as I was spinning in circles chasing Hudson around the house with Ava in one arm. My mom, who is essentially my third arm, was planning to walk in the door at 8:50 to relieve me for my doctor’s appointment. My sister, who lives in New York but was home for Ava’s baby naming ceremony, offered to come over closer to 8. It didn’t seem necessary, but I absolutely welcomed it. I had only been alone with Ava and 16-month-old Hudson for 45 minutes. It was going smoothly, and I laughed that it felt like all I could handle.
My doctor’s office was running a bit behind — as all doctor’s offices do. I did the math, and if I walked out of the exam room by 10:12, I’d make it home in time for my mom to make her 10:30 meeting. I waited, relieved I had passed the blood pressure test (postpartum blood pressure has been through the roof for both babies — thank goodness for medicine). I greeted my nurse, who I loved to catch up with each visit over the course of exactly two years.
I walked into this practice for the first time when learning I was pregnant with Hudson, so naive and nervous and in awe of the unknown. And here we are, two years later, with two healthy babies and a heavy dose of Deja vu.
My time with my doctor was only five minutes in total because I had to fly out the door. Though I rushed it, it was calming, and exciting, and conclusive that all looked good and my body was recovering well. It was a sigh of relief — and a sigh that I’m still lingering in twelve hours later. Why? My appointment marked a sense of closure that I weirdly was not ready for. This bizarrely beautiful routine of monthly, then weekly, appointments for a couple of years had come to an end. It was a routine that I, a dramatic needlephobic, surprisingly found comforting and clarifying.
Suddenly, this chapter of pregnancy had ended.
(The door is not locked, as we are still weighing more kids one day — just not next year, ha!)
I feel so grateful that pregnancies with Hudson and Ava were a beautiful journey. I learned so much about myself, not just physically but mentally. I learned my limits — and how much further I could stretch them. I learned how to face my fears. And I learned how to expand my heart exponentially to nurture these two perfect humans.
So, to put it dramatically, and simply, I’m mourning the end of this chapter. My chest feels tight as I recognize that my attention, energy, panic, adrenaline, and altogether purpose that I poured into this “planning” phase will be exerted toward these babies — the “execution” phase — from this point forward.
I ran out the door of the doctor so quickly that I didn’t get to process it. So, now, I am trying to.
We did it.
I did it.
I’m so damn lucky I got to do it.
Here we are: My calendar no longer marked by a countdown of weeks and comparable vegetables and an accompanying test or ultrasound. Now, it’s wide open. A different unknown — of raising a family, of loving and living through the ups and downs without a regimented timeline.
I wish I had savored a few more minutes of today’s appointment. The rush, the running late, though — that’s life. And, as my doctor said on my way out, “we can not rush the next visit.” I look forward to that visit and all that I will experience between now and then.
Here we go.