Nate has a Birthday

Oops. I meant to publish this at the beginning of September.  Sorry, Nate

Today my baby boy turned 11.  Crazy, really, that 11 years ago I would have my last hospital birth.  It was because of my experience with giving birth to Nate that I looked into home births at all.  Not that it was a terrible experience, because it wasn't.  In fact, after he was born, I was exhausted to the point of not caring that this precious, helpless baby in my lap was screaming his little face off.  As we wheeled from the delivery room to my regular room, we stopped by the nursery.  There I deposited my screaming baby with no hint of remorse, giving strict instructions to give him formula and not to bother me until I asked for him.  Drained of human kindness and relieved of my motherly responsibility, I fell into a fitful sleep that lasted over 6 hours, punctuated only by the nurses coming in to prod me every 3 hours.

And then I took him home and didn't put him down for the next 6 weeks.  I had two needy toddlers at home already, and I needed sleep.  With Nate in my arms, I could get sleep.  With sleep I could function.  I never again judged a mom for not letting her baby cry himself to sleep.

Nate is my crazy one.  My easily embarrassed one.  My snuggly-cuddly one.  My art-loving guy.  I love him!