That first moment I knew I was pregnant.
The first time nausea was how I defined each waking moment, a fog of nausea and exhaustion no amount of sleep could erase.
That red letter day I woke up and for the first time in four months wasn’t running to the bathroom to throw up.
It was a day to celebrate. My mom made blueberry pancakes and I not only kept the entire stack down—I gorged on a second serving.
The first time I looked really and truly without-a-doubt pregnant.
That was about the time I felt that first flutter-butterfly kisses from the inside.
The insane feeling of the first kick – and how it was so much more intimate than anyone had warned me about.
That was my baby in there!
A HUMAN attached absolutely and for all time —with his own arms and legs and brain and thoughts and feelings and it was overwhelming.
The first Braxton-Hicks contractions.
I called my mom and she rushed over in less than fifteen minutes to take my vitals and reassure me that this was NOT the real thing. Not yet. (She was an RN.)
The first real contraction.
The first realization that it hurt so much more than I had anticipated.
And then, outside of my body for the first time, unattached but wonderfully connected by heart and soul; the first time I was able to hold my precious baby boy.
Who is now having his own first baby boy.
No way I’m that old, right?
I guess there’s a first for everything.