Dear Daisy,
I write as Mother’s Day 2008 approaches. You will be 8 days old.
By the time you’re able to read this, you will have heard plenty of news about problems in the world. This is not one of those stories.
It’s the story of your birth.
Your parents would have written, but they’re busy feeding you every three hours, caring for your big brother, Finn, and sister, Violet, and making sure everybody meets you and gets to kiss your little feet.
So here goes, as witnessed by one columnist who happens to be your neighbor . . .
Your mom, Sarah Conklin, was hugely pregnant. So huge that everyone on our street figured she was due months ago. Not that she complained. But you could see as weeks passed and her belly swelled that carrying you was no easy task.
Your due date came and went May 1. That’s when your mom took to eating pineapple, walking the neighborhood and other tricks thought to induce labor.
You would have none of it.
That is, until last Saturday, when you woke her with waves of pain early in the morning.
As birthdays go, you picked a good one — the height of spring in Denver when the sun was hot, the breeze was cool and everything, including the apple tree in your front yard, was in full bloom. It was the kind of day your name will remind people of always.
And so, after sending your brother and sister to relatives, stopping for a cinnamon roll, scratching her belly, napping, strolling with your dad and belly scratching some more, your mom headed to the hospital.
Then things got interesting.
In his quiet, teacher-like way, your dad, Brent Conklin, held your mom as you rocked her body harder with contractions.
Then came your uncle and grandpa, Josh and Mike Havey, with camcorders, sub sandwiches and a rosary to hang on the IV cart. In followed your aunt, Cate Cole, who rubbed your mom’s back, hands and feet. Next came your grandma, Eileen Havey, a steely operating-room nurse whose voice cracked at watching her daughter writhe in agony. Finally arrived your other grandma, Karen Yule, followed by another aunt for a total of seven relatives holding out 14 hands for your mom to squeeze.
For two hours, they stood at her bedside — the whole family watching the whole process in all its messiness and beauty. If you believe in miracles, as these folks do, this birth thing is as close as you get.
“They just couldn’t have been anywhere else,” says your mom, who dreamed of having babies for so long that, at age 15, she taped a photo of Demi Moore pregnant on the cover of Vanity Fair to her wall.
You should have seen her.
She was scared, but didn’t say so. And though she hurt, she pushed through it, figuring you might be her last baby and trying to savor the experience as she pushed until she saw stars.
Then there you were. Seven pounds, 7 ounces, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and all grayish blue in color. “It’s a girl,” the doctor said.
Still, everyone was quiet for five seconds that seemed like five hours until you cried and — no offense — everyone laughed because your healthy lungs sounded like a song.
Before I go, Daisy, there are a few things you should know.
These people are crazy in love with you, and each other.
You have a grandpa who photographed his kids’ placentas and made them into slides. Some day he’s going to whip out photos of your own. Let this be a warning.
And about your mom, she’s got this baby thing totally covered. Don’t forget some day to thank her
.
Susan Greene writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
