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Today, my baby turns two.

Only, as everyone seems fond of pointing out, he's not a baby anymore. He's a little boy.

To which I rather gracelessly respond, "Shut up."

Two years ago today, in the middle of a violent storm that shut down the power and phone lines in the hospital, Sam was born via a scheduled c-section. For those of you who haven't had a c-section, despite the fact that you're awake during the surgery, and that you're the one giving birth, you end up oddly detached from what's going on down there.

For starters, they drape a tent over your abdomen, so that you can't watch while they cut you open. This is, as Martha would say, a Good Thing. But then all of the doctors and nurses head down to that side of the tent, and although they say things like, "You're going to feel some tugging," and "Don't be alarmed if you smell something burning," (!) they pretty much ignore you.

And then the doctor says something to your husband, like, "Would you like to watch while we lift your wife's uterus out of her body?" and just like that, you've lost his attention, too.

(George insists that if anyone ever asks you that, your answer should be, "No, thank you. I'd rather not.")

So eventually, the only person you have left to chat with up at your end of the operating table is the anesthesiologist. Mine was a nice guy. He kept telling me I was doing beautifully, and promised that as soon as the baby was out, he'd give me something "to relax me."

"May I have it now?" I asked greedily.

"No, not until the baby is out."

Stupid baby.

"How about now?" I tried again a few minutes later.

"Not yet."

"Now?"

"No."

But, as promised, as soon as Sam was lifted out of me, he hit me with something that made much of the rest of the day a happy blur. Oh, sure, I remember the first time I saw Sam (he was screaming with outrage). And how the first time George held Sam, the proud daddy beaming with joy, Sam promptly peed down the front of George's scrubs. And how I cried when the mean day nurse bullied me into putting on hideously tight, itchy stockings to prevent blood clots.

But the first really clear memory I have of being a mom was sometime that first night, after the happy juice the anesthesiologist had given me had worn off, and after George had left for the night. The night nurse (as a rule the night nurses were dolls, in stark contrast to the day nurses, who were such hideous gorgons, I suspect they kept them in cages at night, throwing raw meat in after them), brought Sam in to me to nurse.

It was the first time we were alone together. Sam was wrapped up like a baby burrito, with only his little face visible. He peered up at me, those big blue eyes rolling with hunger. And then, I swear to God, he grinned at me.

And just like that, I fell deeply, hopelessly in love. The love affair has been going strong ever since.

Now there are people who will tell you that babies that age are not capable of smiling. They're wrong.

"Look, he's smiling!" I'd coo.

"It's just gas," Evil Day Nurse would say dismissively.

How fucking irritating is that? So my nature being what it is, I proceeded to take fourteen million photographs of Sam as a smiling newborn to prove to anyone who questions it, that my baby did indeed smile the day he was born. And he hasn't stopped smiling since.

Happy Birthday, Sam-bean. Thank you for every blessed moment, and for every single smile. And I don't care what they say . . . you are a baby, you're my baby, and no matter how big you get, you always will be.

Posted 05 September 2005 at 09:51 AM