To The Child I Didn't Plan To Have  

Dear Baby C,

Just writing that title hurts me, because it takes me back to a place I don't like to remember. It takes me back to the morning I found out you were joining our family; to the morning I lost my faith.

We conceived you exactly one year ago tonight. Some might think it strange I know the exact date, but I do. First of all, it was the only time during that entire month we, ahem, got it on; secondly, I remember the stormy night clearly because I had called in sick to work on what I can now fully admit was a "mental health day." I think that's what you might call irony.

I knew nearly instantly that I was pregnant. I don't know why, I don't know how; I just know that something clearly felt different, and no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew I was pregnant. And I knew it was a mistake.

I maintained this cruel stance for the first 14 weeks of my pregnancy. For 14 weeks, when someone congratulated me on my pregnancy, I cringed; when I tried to explain to that unexpecting person that you were an accident, they cringed. I felt constantly nauseated, throwing up more in that first trimester than I had in my entire life up to that point; I was convinced I was poisoning you with my negativity from the inside out, the vomit a physical symptom of my emotional state. (As you can see by the picture at right, that fear was totally unfounded; Baby C has constantly worn a smile, showing off his easy laugh, almost since the day he was born.)

I cried, I mourned, I panicked. I didn't know how I would make room for you in my heart, in my life. I was sure it wasn't possible.

And then something amazing happened. Your daddy and I hadn't been able to come up with a name for you; while we'd always known what we'd name your sister -- literally, from the day we got married -- we'd never had a name for a second child. One night during my last week of work, I was sitting at my computer desk when it came to me: Faith.

Had you been a girl, we would have named you Faith Catherine. The reason is simple: that single word symbolized my entire pregnancy up to that point, and really, beyond. Learning you'd join our family was a test of my faith. It shook me to the core. It made me doubt everything I thought I was and everything I wanted to be. It made me realize that I was not in control of my life -- not by a long shot -- and that the only way out of the dungeon I'd carved for myself was to look to God. He was the only one in control of what happened to me, to you; and He doesn't make mistakes -- He makes blessings.

From that point on, I worked to put my faith in Him. I trusted that he knew what was best for me, for you, for our family. This was not an immediate, overnight conversion. At times, like Thomas, I still doubted. Even as I carried you into the 40th week of pregnancy, I wasn't wholly convinced; I'd have to (metaphorically) touch your hands and feel the hole in your side.

And then you arrived... and you were a miracle. As I held your minutes-old body, you grabbed my pinky finger with your tiny hand; I touched the silky smoothness of your side. I did what I'd feared for nine months I'd never be able to do: fall in love.

I like to think that I fell in love with you because of me, and because you are mine. But I know both these things to be false, although I don't like to admit it. I know you are not mine, you are His, His entirely; and it is despite me -- and because of Him -- that I fell in love... oh so deeply in love.

I'm not an overly-religious person. I consider myself a practicing Catholic, but I frequently miss mass. I don't read the bible on a regular basis, although I do pick up scholarly texts on theology or divinity.

I'm not a saint, but even I know a miracle when I see it. And that miracle, baby, is you.