Four years ago on this day, I woke up at 6am after a fitful night of sleep. I quickly got up, showered and took a long look around our house. I was 38 weeks pregnant, and had to be at the hospital by 8am to have my daughter.

I planned to go into labor naturally, but Cordelia had other ideas. After weeks and weeks of feeling something hard in my ribs, making it extremely hard to breathe, my doctor confirmed via ultrasound that indeed it was my baby girl’s large skull pressing on my diaphragm. She remained stubborn and refused to turn head down, bringing up the question of what to do. My doctor gave me several options, including attempting a breech birth, but since she was my first child, I was too afraid of something going wrong and hurting her. I decided on the scheduled c-section.

Sitting in the pre-op area, I listened to Cordy’s heartbeat coming from the monitor, galloping steadily, completely unaware that she was being born that day. Aaron sat beside me, holding my hand and trying to keep my mind off the upcoming surgery. I was excited to finally meet our daughter, and scared of what lie ahead – not just the surgery, but the entire idea of being a mother.

My spinal anesthesia was done by a resident, and amazingly she got it on the first try. As soon as the anesthesia hit my system, I immediately vomited. (I’m sensitive to those drugs.) As they prepped me for surgery, my doctor walked me through the procedure one more time. I asked if the drape could be lowered when they pulled her out so I could see it, but they told me no, due to keeping a sterile field. I asked if I could have a mirror set up – I swore that the gore wouldn’t bother me – but my doctor again refused, saying that seeing someone else cut open and seeing yourself cut open can cause very different reactions. I was disappointed that everyone else in the room would see my daughter before I would.

The surgery seemed to take forever. I kept asking, “Is she out yet?” My doctor was getting close and asked how big this baby was estimated to be. I said around 6 lbs. and she quickly replied, “I’m looking at her butt right now, and I can tell you this isn’t a 6 lb. baby butt!” Finally they told Aaron to stand up and peer over the curtain. I again asked, “Is she out yet?” and Aaron said yes. I then waited to hear that first cry, the confirmation that she was breathing.

That cry finally came, and it was one of a royally pissed off baby. She was truly offended to have been pulled out so roughly, and as a nurse quickly walked past me, holding the baby up to see as she moved her to the warmer, I saw a pale, chubby baby with a face so angry that her eyes nearly disappeared into her scrunched-up, screaming face. Aaron followed her to the warmer to take pictures while I strained my neck around, trying to catch a glimpse of her again.

After she was quickly dried off and weighed (8 lbs, 4 oz!), they swaddled her into a baby burrito and Aaron brought her over to me. Cordy was quiet by this point, stunned by what had just happened to her, and looking around with confused, uneasy eyes. Our family moment was short-lived, and soon they insisted on taking her to the nursery for a full evaluation because of fluid in her lungs. I wouldn’t see her again for over three hours.

During that time, Aaron and his father watched Cordy through the nursery window, laying alone on a warmer. I was still downstairs in the recovery room, waiting to have feeling in my toes before they would move me upstairs. When we were finally reunited, I first vomited again (anesthesia) and then finally got to hold my daughter. I felt so disconnected from this child. She was crying and my first attempts to soothe her didn’t go so well. Could I really do this? Did she already hate me?

Our rough start was hard on all of us. Cordy was angry with the world, unwilling to breastfeed, shrill in her cries, and unable to eat without spitting part of it back up. I spent many nights during those first few weeks bouncing gently on an exercise ball while I held her, begging her to go to sleep while I softly cried and wondered if it would always be like this.

It did get better, of course. As we slowly got to know each other, and she accepted that she would never be able to go back to that warm, dark, wet place she liked so much before September 21, she began to enjoy the world around her, and I found myself completely in love with her. I can’t pinpoint when it happened – I know that when I left the hospital I worried about what kind of a mother I would be because I didn’t feel that instant bond with my daughter. But at some point we found that connection, and I ached to be away from her for even a moment.

Our rocky start was a learning curve for both of us – she is my first child, my trailblazer, and my only experience as a mother back then were my trials and errors with her. We’ve grown together, and my experience with her has been only a benefit for her sister, Mira.

Cordelia is no longer the angry baby. She purged years of anger from her in those early weeks, replacing it with a child who is full of love and happiness. On this day, her fourth birthday, she’s a beautiful girl who is smart, curious, and funny. She spins in circles until she falls down in giggles and will chase bubbles for as long as I can blow them. She insists on going to bed before 8pm, and always goes to her room with little complaint. (Although it guarantees she’ll be awake before 7am.)

She still challenges us every single day, but I now feel more comfortable handling those challenges.

Happy birthday, Cordelia. You’re still my Amazon warrior princess.