Dear Maggie ...

Today you turn four.

Four years old.

I don't know why, but this birthday feels very different to me. Ages 2 and 3 seemed to straddle the line between toddler and preschooler, preschooler and little girl. But four? There's no more denying that you're growing up, and way too fast.

When you were a baby, everything about you amazed me. Your smile, your laugh, the first time you reached for a toy, every tooth that popped through ... I was reminded constantly what a miracle you are.

You still amaze me, although these days you can do most things for yourself (and usually insist upon it!). You can write your name and mine. You know your address, our full names, and how to call Daddy using speed dial. You can talk a blue streak and create elaborate stories. You can button buttons and zip zippers. You can swing yourself higher than I ever would when pushing. Sure, you could do all those things yesterday when you were still three, but four seems different.

Older.

You're a contradiction. Just when I think I have you figured out, you change the rules. I can't label you as any one type -- not that I'd want you to fall into one category -- because you seem a pretty balanced mix of social and solitary, competitive and laid back, intense and mellow, focused and scattered. You still have meltdowns, but they're fairly predictable and infrequent.

You're a bit of a perfectionist and get frustrated if you can't do things exactly right the first time. Hand-writing and shoe-tying come to mind. One of these you're pretty good at, the other ... nowhere close. But you're incredibly focused on such tasks and are determined to succeed, and I admire that in you. You're also stubborn like your parents and will either try to argue your way out of just about anything or take a more passive approach, quietly doing whatever it is you want, regardless of what you've been commanded. I keep reminding myself that this could be a good characteristic when you're a teen. Or a very dangerous one.

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I'll never forget the day you were born. I may not remember when exactly you spoke your first real word or how tall you were at age 2, but I remember every detail of October 19, 2004. It was a rainy Tuesday, and we'd been at the hospital since Sunday night, attempting to induce labor.

Two doses of cervadil, a full day on pitocin (and the start of a second) ... nothing seemed to be working, and when Dr. Brunvoll came in to check on me that morning, I was in the middle of a meltdown. I was tired of being cooped up in the same hospital room -- since your birth was an induction, I had to be monitored at all times, which meant I couldn't disconnect the machines to leave the room and walk the halls. I was frustrated that nothing seemed to be working, frustrated that I wasn't technically in labor yet (though grateful that I wasn't in pain either!), and worried that Dr. B might decide the induction was a bad idea and send us home babyless.

When Dr. B saw me like this, he said, "OK, let's break your water. One way or the other, we're having a baby today." I sighed, already preparing myself mentally for a c-section. But within two hours, I was having painful contractions and had kicked everyone except Daddy out of my hospital room. I asked the nurse for some pain relief, and she gave me something through my IV. I was at 2 cm then, and she said that Dr. B would be back in an hour to check on me again; hopefully I'd have dilated one or two more cm and could then get an epidural. Well, Dr. B didn't arrive in an hour, he arrived in 20 minutes! Meanwhile, the contractions were right after the other and super painful. Because it had only been 20 minutes, I just knew that I wouldn't be dilated enough to get the epidural, but when Dr. B checked me, he looked at me and grinned. "You're at 7." I didn't believe him -- I even said, "That's not funny," and his grin instantly left his face. "I never joke with a woman in labor," he said. (Smart guy...)

He ordered the epidural, but because I'd been on blood-thinners throughout the pregnancy, I had to have blood work before the epidural. Dr. B wasn't sure how long that would take, and he said at the rate I was progressing, I might get to 10 cm before I got my epidural. If that happened, he said, we weren't waiting -- we were going to start pushing, with or without pain relief. In fact, he didn't even go back to his office; after all, I'd dilated 5 cm in 20 minutes ... he was sure it wouldn't take long for me to go another 3. When he told me this, for a split second I thought, "Wow. I'm going to be superwoman and do this without drugs." Then fear took hold. I couldn't do it. I wasn't trying to be wimpy or overly dramatic; the pain was simply so intense that I couldn't focus on anything else, and I worried I wouldn't be able to follow directions or do what I needed to do to get you out.

Things worked out perfectly though. I think the anesthesiologists were waiting in my room so they could act as soon as the call from the lab came through. I remember people chatting happily in my room -- Daddy, Dr. Brunvoll, and two guys in white coats. One of the white coats asked if this was our first baby. We told him yes, and he shared his memories of when his first child was born. "It's like going from black-and-white TV to color," he offered. "My children have turned my world from black and white to color." Just then, Dr. B's pager went off; evidently it was the lab, because he said, "We're a go," and the white coats scrambled into action. I was lying on my side, and one of them made a comment about trying to do it on my side -- I guess they thought I was in so much pain that I couldn't sit up. I remember thinking, Sit up? You want me to sit up? That's what's standing between me and some pain relief? Yeah, I can sit up. I could climb Mt. Everest if it would make the pain go away.

They say it takes an epidural 10-20 minutes to take effect, but I swear I felt relief immediately. The difference in my pre-epidural and post-epidural experience was like night and day. Once I got it, I was able to relax and enjoy the experience. Your labor slowed and I napped a bit, invited family back into the room, even joked with the nurses. (Unbeknownst to me, later when I was pushing you out, Grandma and Mammaw were just on the other side of the door, with their ears pressed against the wooden door. Grandma said she'd hear hysterical laughter and think, "OK that baby must be here, because why in the world would she be laughing in the middle of labor?" and then she'd hear "OK, push! 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ..." and she'd realize that you hadn't arrived quite yet. And later, when the nurse said, "There are a couple of grandmothers out here who really want to come in and see the baby," I told her no, not yet. I cherished those first few minutes, and I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone yet.)

I started pushing at 4:20 p.m. Most women can feel something, even with an epidural, but I couldn't feel anything at all. The nurse had her hands on my stomach, feeling for the next contraction, and she'd tell me when to push. Daddy was holding my left leg up, and Amy (my nurse) was holding my right leg. There were NICU people in the room, just in case, a hospital policy for any baby born before 37 weeks. Amy asked if we wanted to feel your head, still about an inch or two inside. I didn't, but Daddy did. He touched the top of your head and then started dancing around the bed, singing, "She's here, she's here. She's almost here!" I asked for a mirror, and they brought out a big one and placed it at my feet so I could see you come out. I saw the top of your head appear ... and then disappear again.

And then, at 5:55, you arrived. I didn't even see it, not at that exact moment. I had my eyes closed, pushing, and all of a sudden I heard Dr. B say, "OK, stop pushing for a minute." I opened my eyes and looked at the mirror, and there you were, head out and the rest of you still in. A couple more gentle pushes and you were all the way out! You didn't cry at first, and given my paranoia throughout the whole pregnancy, I should probably have been worried, but I wasn't ... not a bit. You just laid there, eyes wide open in wonder, while they suctioned your nose and wiped your skin and wrapped you up.

I didn't cry when you were born. (Daddy, on the other hand, sobbed like a baby.) Instead, I think I shared your sense of amazement at the whole experience. All I could do was stare back at you, eyes wide open in wonder.

When Dr. B placed you in my arms, he said, "This (nodding to you) is not an accident. As many times as I do this, when I think about everything that has to go right to get to this point -- for a woman to get pregnant, stay pregnant, and deliver a perfectly healthy baby -- I just know that none of us are here by accident."

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There was a rainbow in the sky at the exact moment you were born. I found this out the next day, when I talked to my friend Donna. I think Daddy's message to her the night before had said you arrived "around dinnertime," and she wanted to know exactly when you were born. I told her 5:55 and she said, "You're not going to believe this." She had been driving home from work and was stopped at the light downtown where McCallie and Bailey avenues meet. She noticed it had stopped raining, looked at her clock, which said 5:55. When she looked up, she noticed a rainbow in the sky over Missionary Ridge. The next day, she sent an announcement to the UTC faculty/staff email list to let them know of your arrival. Her message began: "At 5:55 p.m. yesterday, the rain stopped, the sun shone, a rainbow stretched across McCallie Ave., and a child was born."

To this day, Donna always tells you that you make God smile, and I think to myself, "Yes, and He sent us a rainbow to prove it."

You make me smile too, you know. One look at your big blue eyes ...

... one listen of your sweet, infectious laugh. I can't help but smile. You've taken my life and turned it upside down.

I remember walking to my car after my last day of work before maternity leave. "What in the world am I going to do at home with this baby for four months?" I wondered out loud to the guys who were helping me carry some stuff out to the car. And then you were here, and I wondered out loud how I could bear to go back to work and leave you. I remember thinking that the ride home from the hospital would be the scariest ride ever, because of the holy-crap-we're-on-our-own-now feeling we'd surely have. It was the scariest ride ever, but not for that reason. Instead, I sat in the back seat with you, surveying every other car on the highways as something that could potentially hurt you.

It's bittersweet, this growing-up stuff. With each year, each milestone, I get a little bit sad; it's confirmation after confirmation that you're getting bigger, that you're no longer a baby, that one day you won't "need" me as much. But the past four years have also shown me that each new phase is even more wonderful than the one before. And I think that on this, your fourth birthday, the prevailing emotion I have is one of gratitude. I'm so thankful that you're part of my life. I'm thankful that you arrived safely and healthy after a high-risk pregnancy. I'm thankful that I get to stay home with you and be a part of your growth every day. I'm thankful that I was chosen to be your mommy. And I'm thankful for the lessons you have taught me. You have shown me how to live in the moment, to continue looking at the world wide-eyed, to appreciate everything -- little and big. I didn't know courage, love, protection, or patience until you arrived, and I've been getting daily lessons in these subjects ever since. You bring joy, fun, wonder, and contentment to my world.

Thank you, Maggie. You have truly brought color into what was before a black-and-white life.

My cup runneth over. And I am grateful.