All through my pregnancy with you, I held my breath. Every time a nurse was unable to find your heartbeat and wandered off slowly to find a doctor, I closed my eyes and turned myself to stone. It happened a lot.
The morning before you were born we headed to the hospital because I couldn't feel you moving. I tried everything- the orange juice, lying on my side. Nothing. As we drove to the hospital, I was almost able to convince myself that you were already dead.
Just as we pulled in to the sprawling Beaumont campus, I felt it. A kick, a punch, something. And I knew with sudden clear joy, I wasn't leaving without you. The car seat would have a baby in it when we left the hospital this time.
I'll never forget the sound of your first cries. Loud, insistent wails. Such a contrast to the silent delivery before yours. Relief and joy and sadness. And so much joy.
Drew. You are creative and fun. You make us laugh almost every day. You don't really like hugs but you occasionally endure them for my sake. You've loved your little sister since you first put your hand on me and felt her move. You are a little bit of a mystery.
We love you and are so glad you're here.