To say I was terrified would be an understatement. I was still just a kid, and in the previous nine months I'd disappointed my parents, been the target of rumors and name calling, had vicious morning sickness, and I'd gotten married and moved more than 500 miles away from home to a place where I had no friends or family.
We had a few false starts on the whole delivering-the-baby front. Watson and I had raced to the hospital three times because I was feeling all Braxton-Hicksish and thought this had to be it, right? Can't be any worse than this, right? All mothers have free reign to laugh at my naivete. Finally, ten days after the due date, I was scheduled for an induction on April 13, 1999.
As someone absolutely horrified by the idea of spontaneously going into labor in, say, a supermarket or traffic jam, I was very reassured by the convenience of having an appointment for baby birthing. It also guaranteed that I would have freshly shaved legs.
I arrived at Baptist Medical Center in Little Rock, Arkansas at 7:30 a.m. The next ten hours were a blur of intense pain, Pitocin dripping, epidural needles, Burger King commercials that were making me ravenously hungry, measly ice chips, Watson reading/singing/talking to me, forceps, being told the baby was positioned the wrong way and was stuck, NICU team members lining up around the room just in case and sending me into a panicked bout of hyperventilation that earned me an oxygen mask and then...
There she was. My glorious baby girl. I immediately started crying, because for the first time ever, I heard my baby crying. Dr. Simmons held her up in the air. She was screaming like a banshee, she was the color of a ripe tomato, and she was clearly furious about the whole birthing ordeal. I stared at her. She stared at me. We both cried some more. The nurse handed her to me. She was crimson and puffy, smushy-faced and slightly cross-eyed. She was the most breathtakingly beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Watson leaned over to praise us both and to ask what I thought we should name her. I thought about one of the names I'd suggested on a whim. One that sounded strong, courageous. Willing to take a bold chance chasing a dream. Sailor. Watson looked at her with tears in his eyes and nodded.
She grabbed my finger with her tiny little fist and started to nurse, and at that moment I was no longer a scared, unsure kid. I was a mother. I was Sailor's mother.
Eleven years ago today, Sailor Margaret Nichols was born. Sailor, who brings sunshine and poetry and love and laughter to every day. Sailor, who has her daddy's kind heart and determination and her mother's affection for books and tendency toward the dramatic. Sailor, who came into my life unexpectedly and gave it purpose.
Sailor, who is growing up entirely too fast.
