Olivia’s fourth transferversary

I’m not going to lie, I may have bribed her to take a photo with her embryo picture in exchange for help building a fort.

This is the first year I’ve told her about the photo. That it’s her as an embryo, along with her brother that went in Mommy’s tummy with her. She held it for a moment.

“My brother?” she asked.

“Yep. He’s in Heaven now.”

“My brother is in Heaven?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Yep,” I said again.

She made a dive for her Lego house and suddenly I was convincing her to sit still and smile at the camera. We took some photos and she was off again, “Mom! You help me build my fort now!”

It’s pretty much how all the conversations surrounding her conception go, which is good, you know? It helps me to make it no big deal, which was my intention all along.

So much throughout the year, I’m thinking about this transfer. The one that brought me my little girl, my little Seaweed, the most perfect thing that grew inside me and was laid on my chest later that fall. There are so many moments throughout the weeks leading up to this every year where I’m silently thanking God for the miracle of this toddler.

Every event during those six years brought me closer to her and I still don’t know how it happened. Well, I mean, I know how. And by that I mean a team of medical professionals clustered between my legs, injecting two microscopic embryos through a catheter up into my uterus. Was it sexy? No. Did it involve a romantic evening with glasses of wine? Also no.

But there was hope. And love. Lots and lots of love and hope. There was fear that it would fail. There was anxiety that the next two weeks would result in a stark white pregnancy test. There were so many thoughts going through my head that day, and Olivia, the spirited, hilarious, curly-haired toddler I know now wasn’t there. Because it was so hard to think past a positive test. Past an actual pregnancy with my belly growing and the kicks I would feel inside.

I could picture a baby, at the finish line, wrapped in a generic blanket with a generic soft little baby head. There was no way that day I could have ever pictured my beautiful little girl that would come from that glossy embryo photo.

There was no way I could ever picture this embryo flinging her curls around as she races down the hallway.

Putting her hand on her hip, eyes narrowed as she asked me, “What’s your problem?”

Shocking me with her vast imagination.

Eating cheese sticks like they’re going out of style.

Sneaking into the bedroom early in the morning and giving me a tiny kiss on the cheek to wake me up, never mind that I purposely pretend to be sleeping so she’ll do it.

Laughing hysterically when her feet are tickled.

Folding her hands and saying prayers before we eat.

Saying really awkward (but technically true) things like, “Mama, when I was a little baby I loved drinking milk from your boobs,” and “Daddy has a penis and I have a gina, and you have a gina, Mama, because we’re both GURLS!”

Boldly walking up to other kids in public, saying, “My name’s Owiddie!”

This girl is so different from me, and yet, she’s so much ME it’s surprising sometimes. She’s (extremely) outgoing where I’m shy and introverted, she’s LOUD and I have a naturally quiet voice. I hate being in noisy restaurants for this reason and meanwhile, her voice can carry across the room. She has luxurious locks and my hair is blah and weirdly wavy.

But we both have a love of animals. We have compassion for people and want to make sure everyone is having a good time. We find the same things to be righteously funny. We both love babies and tacos and pizza, and reading in bed after it’s bedtime. We love shopping and coming up with new ideas and a pair of adorable shoes. We excel at making up songs.

She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and it all started in a surgical suite in Houston.

Happy transferversary, my little girl. My wish for you is that you always know where you came from, and how much love it took in creating you. Yes, the world is a better place because you’re here. But you don’t have to do anything amazing to change the world. Your smile and compassion and infectious laugh already are.