JOY! Levi Peterson Stine was born this morning at 2 o’clock, arriving with a lusty cry and bruised head, arriving the “natural” way in answer to the prayers of his mother, who was disappointed to have a cesarean last time. Yes, he is “on the outside,” and he is perfect, and beautiful, and small (but not too) and sweet, and lovely, and perfect.
Funny the difference a few hours makes– all the questions answered, all the doubts thrown over. Rachel and I had discussed what her newly painful contractions might mean at six p.m. last night. I had gently said that it could still be another week. “I’m just waiting and waiting for something and it never happens,” she said. And then it did.
The proud papa called me at 2:45 this morning and made his announcement to my sleep-fogged brain, but I rallied and talked with them both for what might have been half an hour, then lay awake for at least another half hour, breathing words of thanks into the darkness. Sweet little Levi. God is good.
And then this afternoon Beth and I spent two and a half hours at the Shower of Showers, a shower combination for the daughter and future daughter-in-law of our dear friend, Carolyn. Yes, Carolyn’s only son Clay (whose birthday – or one of his birthdays, anyway – was today) will marry the lovely Sarah in May, and so we showered her with gifts for her future home today.
It was fun to watch her open things, perched, as we were, on the stairs that overlook the two-story living room. Towels, dishes, a bud vase, appliances. A set of really enviable baskets. Lovely things, really. But this was not what held my attention.
No, my attention returned again and again to Alison, the other opener of gifts, Carolyn’s daughter, who is due to deliver her first baby, a daughter, in March. And it wasn’t just the gift bags that held me, beautiful though they were. It was the gifts themselves.
The sweetest, finest linen slip that the baby will wear under her dress to her Uncle Clay’s wedding in May. Picture frames in pastel stripes, a diaper stacker in a wee print, gingham wrapping paper that concealed pale green bedding, the softest sleepers with yellow ducks for pockets, floral jumpers with matching bloomers, blankets that you yourself want to sleep in, hats, bitty socks. Oh my, oh my, oh my.
Those sweet, early days of a baby’s life when they sleep warm and crumpled against your chest, fingers folded. Glimpses of eyes when they open, so briefly, and close again, and you think you can’t wait until they will stay open for a while– and then you’re praying that they’ll close, if only for half an hour. Those are good days, and you forget how hard they are.
This afternoon Emma Grace played up the street at her friend’s house. The boys and I were heading out to get her and found her running home, her pink tutu floating around her knees, her fuzzy fabric tiara planted firmly on her head, her blond hair straying here and there from the pony tail. Running home, perfectly happy, all by herself.
She’ll be four on Wednesday. Four. At the grocery store this evening I bought her a “4” candle for her birthday cake. She was delighted.
My mother told me that my great-grandmother said, “They’re babies ’til they’re four.” So I guess it’s time for another one.
