I slept in minutes the night before the big day, tossing and turning and dreaming in snippets. A worried mind is not a rested mind.
She was nearly three years in the making. She required bed rest, house arrest, and constant monitoring. With the miscarriages permanently etched on our brains, we worried for 39 weeks straight. Because infertility, as it turns out, never really leaves you.
When she finally arrived we were overwhelmed with emotion: Elation, excitement, and relief coursed through our souls as we finally held our sweet baby girl in our arms. Finally, it was our turn.
And so we went about protecting her. We nurtured her, we snuggled her, and we were completely in awe of her every second of every day.
For the past five and a half years, we have built her up and watched her thrive. We’ve cheered her on in good times and held her close in not so good times. We’ve watched her every move and kept her home for even the slightest sign of an asthma attack.
We’ve taken care of her every step of the way.
So it only makes sense that I didn’t sleep that night. Because the following morning, I would have to trust a new person to take care of my baby girl for four hours and twenty minutes of the day, five days a week.
No one loves my sweet girl as much as me. No one knows her inside and out. No one will ever put her first.
I would have to trust them to call when she wheezes and comfort her when she’s sad. I would have to trust that them to cheer when she needs cheering and step back when she needs independence. I would have to trust them to help her find her voice and advocate for her needs.
I would have to let go just a little bit more.
I wasn’t ready.
Truth be told, I never would be…