A Champion

I have been watching a whole lot of television this week. But since the Olympics only come around every two years and I've missed the last two, I feel justified. I've watched a range of events that I've never paid attention to before--canoeing, rowing, kayaking, volleyball, boxing, diving, cycling, fencing, bad badminton--in addition to the ones I've always enjoyed, like swimming and gymnastics. I am amazed at how easy the athletes make their chosen sports look. I am astounded by the things the human body is capable of.

I was thinking this as I was watching diving the other day, when the thought came to my mind that my body has done some pretty incredible things too.  And although I can't jump more than a foot off the floor, I can barely doggie paddle across a cheap hotel-sized pool, and I will NEVER EVER appear on international TV in a bikini let alone a leotard, I have given birth, and that is, in my opinion, the most important feat the human body will ever achieve.

I'll never forget those first few moments after my daughter (whom I will refer  to as Kevin) was born. While the situation was intense, scary, and more than a little stressful (she came 8 weeks early), the atmosphere was strangely peaceful and calm as she took her first breaths. They laid her purple body on my chest and I heard her holler as her limbs flailed all over the place, searching for boundaries, something to help her define her surroundings. I reached out my hand and she found her anchor, my finger, and gripped so hard they had to peel her tiny fingers off so that the doctors and nurses could begin to take care of her. I remember thinking, "Good. She's screaming. She's holding on. She's a fighter. She'll be fine."

I think of the pain and the sacrifices of those early days, when we did not know how this would turn out. Would she suffer lasting damage? Would she remember the pricks and jabs and lights and x-rays and having her little heart shocked back into a normal rythmn? Would she ever be able to breathe on her own without the oxygen for more than a few days at a time? Would we ever be able to go home? We prayed and cried and rejoiced over the little things that seemed so big. We held her hands, stroked her head, patted her bum--anything we could do to say, "We're here. We love you. Don't give up."

Now, almost five whole months later, she is strong and healthy, with chubby thighs and rosy cheeks. I watch her discover something new about herself every day: her voice, her hands, her lips, her tongue, her hair (which is disappearing), her feet, her ability to make others smile.

I am not an Olympian, but I am a mother. My home is my training facility, my parents and my Heavenly Father my coaches, my husband my teammate. I don't stop training, ever. I work hard, I sacrifice, I pick myself up from disappointments and rejoice over our triumphs.I cheer on my teammate and ignore other competitors--I am competing against no one but myself and my personal best. And Kevin?

She is my gold medal.