One-Five

January fifth holds more significance to me than almost any other day of the year. On January fifth 2002, my now husband asked me out for the first time and, as we’d been friends for a pretty long time before then, the situation was cushioned by an understandable layer of uncertainty. We went for it, anyway, well knowing that badly timed dating has the potential to permanently ruin decent friendships. About six months later, he dumped me. (I KNOW. Don’t worry- we’re past that now.) And come the following winter, we reconciled and decided to give it another shot. On January fifth. But not intentionally on January fifth. Funny, no? 

We were engaged a handful of months later, married the following January (not the fifth) and the rest, as they say, is history. Love and marriage and all that. 

The fall and early winter of 2006 was an awful one for me. First, we lost our first baby at 13 weeks in September. We hadn’t expected or planned for a baby this early in our marriage, but warmed up to the idea pretty quickly- but it seemed that as soon as we were over the shock of the pregnancy, we received the news that our baby had stopped growing and that our pregnancy was nearing its end. For those of you who’ve been through this, you know that there’s really no more devastating feeling than the loss of a baby. It’s choke-it-back hard, and there’s no good way to deal with it. Almost immediately after our loss, my grandmother- who had been ill for some time- began to show signs of further declining health. The last conversation that I had with her before she passed was about our lost baby and, by the next time I saw her (weeks later), dementia had taken over and I wasn’t sure that she even knew exactly who I was. She passed away in early December and I remember driving home that evening, after waiting with our family in her home all day for her last moments, seeing a shooting star over the freeway near our home. 

I guess that now is a good time for the shooting star tangent- but warning: it’s going to make me sound crazy. 

I’ve seen shooting stars surrounding significant events in my adult life. I saw one the evening that I realized that I was in love with my awesome friend. I saw one in the midst of one of the most depressing, hurtful periods of my life. I saw one after my engagement. I saw one the night before my wedding. And I saw one on the way home from watching my grandmother leave. 

A few months later, right after our first baby would have been due, I decided to get a shooting star tattooed on my upper back. My husband, being ever so supportive, suggested that I’d not be able to stand the pain and that I should schedule the black and white background first, and then schedule the finishing of the tattoo later. You know. Ease into it, right? So I get the tattoo (and, ahem, really Dear?) and schedule the appointment to complete it weeks later. Days before I’m due to head in for it, I realize that something’s feeling off. I pee on a stick. I’m pregnant. Ha!

So when you’re pregnant, the first thing that you do (obviously, right?) is hit the internet and pull up one of those little “Due Date Calculators”. My estimated due date is, of course January fifth. Our little 1-5er’s estimated conception date? The due date of our first baby. Tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor. Of course, though, everyone knows that babies don’t come on their estimated due dates- in fact, only five percent of babies come naturally (not via induction) on their EDDs. And an average first time mother gives birth at well over 41 weeks- so I wasn’t going to have my baby on January fifth. But it was funny still, you know?

So we can go ahead and fast forward to January fourth, 2007. A group of friends and I had been meeting weekly for coffee for a pretty long time and, seeing as how we were meeting the night before my EDD, they prayed for me and my impending labor. As soon (AS SOON) as their prayer was over and their hands were lifted off of me, my contractions began- perfectly spaced at five minutes apart from that moment until the next morning, when headed to the hospital in very obvious labor. And so, a few hours later, our little Elliott Holden was born…on January fifth.

I’ve always looked at Elliott as a confirmation that we’re on the right track, that we made the right decisions all of those years ago. And as a promise that, even in the middle of one of the most emotionally exhausting seasons of loss in my life, God had a much bigger plan for me and for us than I could have conjured up myself. 

Our little Promise Baby is five years old today- the same day that our relationship arrives at decade status. It’s cool to call that a coincidence- I’ll call it amazing.

Love,

Emilie

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