When I envisioned my journey into motherhood, an unattractive baby was definitely not part of the plan. I was certain my little one would be breathtakingly beautiful—after all, hybrid offspring tend to be stunning. Need proof? Just think of two names: Zoe Saldana and Jason Momoa. Yes, the genetic mix I was creating was bound to be spectacular. I even imagined if my little miracle would arrive dressed in haute couture.
However, the first sign that reality might not align with my expectations came right after I delivered, during what I can only describe as a rather colorful moment involving a loud exclamation aimed at my partner. Instead of the anticipated words of praise like “What a beautiful baby girl!” I was met with a startled, “Whoa,” from the nurse.
I lay there, awaiting the moment they would place my gorgeous creation on my chest, but instead, the nurse rushed her over to the weighing station, muttering something about the baby’s gestational age. I remained sprawled out, confused and anxious.
Then the attending nurse cooed, “Look at that Mongolian spot on her backside! What a doozy!” Is anyone going to bring me my celebratory drink? My partner wandered over, and I could hear him bursting into laughter. “Wow, she really needed more time in there,” he joked.
“Can I please have my champagne and my child?” I demanded, feeling the distinct need for some alcohol.
“The Apgar score looks good!” chirped the head nurse, trying to reassure me. My mother, eager to join the conversation, couldn’t help but giggle. “She’s got your belly, honey,” she called to my father, who had wisely retreated from the chaos.
As my father cautiously entered the room, my husband added, “She came out like a bullet!” Meanwhile, the doctor was still busy with the afterbirth, and I was getting more irked by the minute. “Seriously, can I have my baby and my drink?” I shouted in frustration.
Finally, my demands were met, and it proved fortuitous that I got that drink, because wow, this baby was not winning any beauty contests. Yet, as I gazed into her wide eyes and round little face, something shifted. The initial shock faded, and I was instantly smitten—even if she did decide to christen my chest with her first poop. Welcome, my not-so-pretty baby. I promise to love you fiercely, nonetheless.
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In conclusion, while my first impression of my baby was less than ideal, love swiftly replaced any initial concerns.