It’s my Mackenzie’s 8th birthday today. It’s hard for me to even say that because she’s supposed to still be my little one, the baby. I suppose every mom feels that way about her youngest.
I hadn’t intended for her to be my last baby. When we found out I’d have to have a c-section delivery with her we were given the option of having my tubes tied at the same time and I said no. I was 27 years old and I just wasn’t ready to say I was done. I came from a big family and I thought I’d have at least 3 of my own.
After she was born I dealt with a variety of issues in my recovery from the c-section from blood clots to infections. My thyroid began failing and I ended up hospitalized and scared. I experienced debilitating postpartum depression that was later re-diagnosed as another, more long-term mental illness. I was told by more than one doctor that 2 was a fine number of children, and that any more would be ill-advised.
Mackenzie is adorable and tiny and I can still pick her up, even though she’s too old for me to do that. I still find myself babying her far more than I should but I’m trying to get better about it. She’s fun and good-natured and makes me laugh more than anyone else I know. Her uniqueness is a gift and while I’m not ready for her to grow up, in many ways I can’t wait to see who she will become.
God has something big in store for her, and I am grateful every day for my place in her life.