I remember when we got the erroneous results from our IPS – triple screen – test that we had a 50/50 chance of her having Down’s, and how absolutely devastated he was, how we sat silently on the couch in the living room, Wembley looking at us confusedly because we were home in the middle of the day and were upset – she can always tell – and how, in a strange way, I was almost a little surprised by how upset he was; in all the nausea and ickiness of the first three months, I had failed to remember how deeply this pregnancy was his also. It wasn’t intentional, just the result of having to turn internally in order to be strong and brave for the work of carrying our tiny person.
In retrospect, I don’t think I gave my husband enough credit during our pregnancy. It wasn’t that I didn’t give him any, or thought ill of him – far from it! – but that, at the time, I simply could not see how deeply moved he was nor how important, nay essential, he was to my health and well-being, and came the time for Peanut’s delivery, how imperative he was to my successful and pleasant labour and birth of her.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and can’t begin to tell him how much I value him. I’ve been hugging Peanut close, kissing her round, smooth cheeks, delighting in her laughter, wonderous that everything worked perfectly to build her strong and hale and healthy. And wondering why, oh why, isn’t everyone this fortunate.