Can you EVEN? There are lots more pictures here, for further marveling.
And if you really want to blow your mind sky high, here’s this: I started to call this entry “The First Day of the Rest of Her Life,” and WordPress informed me that I’d already used that title. It was on the entry I posted just a bit over five years ago, announcing that five months after she’d been intubated at birth, Simone was free of breathing assistance for the first time. She’d been home over a month by then, and I’d been lugging around an oxygen tank that seemed like an extension of my baby, and suddenly she was free of tubes and monitor wires, her face unobstructed as I’d only seen it for a few minutes, ever. I made a video of her newly de-cannula-ed self dancing to “No Strings” and posted it here, and it remains one of my favorite moments I’ve captured via Internet. When I watch the video I can still feel the elated swoop in my stomach I felt then, like a glee time-capsule.
Coming off of supplementary oxygen isn’t really one of your standard kid milestones. Today, after dropping my ordinary kid off at her ordinary school, I spent a lot of the day thinking about how for so long, everything I hoped for, every milestone I coveted for Simone, was something generally accepted as a given for most—a hole-free heart, working kidneys, keeping all of her fingers and limbs, breathing on her own, coming home from the hospital, and, later, things like being able to hear and eat and jump. I’ve been joking lately about all the weeping I was going to do the day Simone started kindergarten—clutching an old onesie, maybe—but when the day came I was shocked to find my eyes entirely dry. The melancholy, the “my-baby’s-growing-up” sting, was there, but I couldn’t quite access it. It was buried, you see, under an awful lot of awe.