Gift Giving

This morning as I was putting on my earrings, I smiled to myself.

Last December before I gave birth to hope-made-flesh, I told my husband that I wanted him to come to the hospital with roses. What's more, I gave him specific instructions:

Me: "Dan, don't forget to bring me roses to the hospital, okay?"

Dan: "Okay, hon."

Me: "Red ones."

Dan: "Gotcha. Red ones."

Me: "Oh, and make sure they are in a vase, not that tissue stuff."

Dan: "Roses. Red. In a vase."

Me: "Arranged, not dumped in the vase."

Dan: (Laughing) "Anything else?"

Me: "Dan, this is important to me. This is how I want you to give me the gift, okay?"

Dan: "Okay... Red roses. In a vase. Arranged nicely."

And so in the days before the great hope child arrived, I reminded Dan frequently of his gift to me. Truthfully, it became a chore. For both of us.

The day arrived. I gave birth to a loud, squishy full-of-life daughter and Dan arrived on cue with a large vase of long stemmed red roses arranged by a professional.

It was just what I wanted.

He set them on the table and did something like watch TV. I don't know. I remember thinking that it was totally anti-climatic.

See, back in January of that year when I pumped liquid hope (IVF drugs) into my abdomen, I thought that if this awful stuff could produce a child, then we were going all out in the celebration department. We weren't going to chince on things that mattered.
Like a really nice nursing chair.
Or really pretty decor.
Or red roses. Arranged. In a vase. Given to me after the baby was born.

After looking at the roses I determined that at the very least we could get a really pretty picture of us all (even Morgan) as we left the hospital. Something memorable.

It was memorable all right.

Dan had a seizure right there in the hospital. He was unable to drive home.

So we left the hospital, both Dan and me in wheelchairs, accepting help from very nice strangers. I put the baby on my lap and the red-roses-arranged-in-a-vase on the wheely hotel-looking cart.

When the time came for us to get a family picture in the lobby, I declined.
Due to a severe blizzard and subzero temps, Morgan couldn't be at the hospital with us.
Dan hadn't showered and was still fuzzy from the seizure.
I had just had a baby (Duh) and felt very, very frustrated that my fairy tale picture of the hospital stay had been quite different.

Fast forward a week.

It's Christmas Day. Dan can hardly wait to give me my gift. We agreed on a budget and I could tell from the small box he was about to give me that he probably spent the entirely of his budget on this item.

He must have.

Real pearl earrings. With small diamonds on the side.

He was beside himself with excitement. He told me about how he researched for the best pearls and then researched for the best price. He was absolutely elated.

Despite my athletic wear garb, I put on the pearl earrings and felt very special. And very happy.

My, so that's what it feels like to receive a gift. A true gift.

This morning as I put on my earrings, I smiled at this story.
At my neurotic-control-freak-hormonal tendencies.
And at my husband's bursting-with-excitement gift.

He could have given me dryer lint and it would have been a hundred times better than the gift I forced him to give me.

But even better was the gift of himself.