Querida Gabriella:
You were born today, July 7, at 7:32 a.m. Weight: 8 pounds, 6 ounces.
A big girl! A perfect baby girl, the doctor said.
Wow, you came into the world with a bang!
I think you wanted to make a statement. We were at a gallery opening and my water broke. Oops. In the middle of the show. I was wearing a black dress, so it wasn’t that obvious, but obvious enough. I mean, I literally dropped a bucket of water to the floor. I thought your daddy was going to have a heart attack as he drove to the hospital. He thought he’d have to deliver you himself!
But you waited, my sweet. Very patient of you. I even had a chance to get an epidural (I’ll tell you what that is some-day). And here you are. Your hair is black, your eyes are blue, but they tell me that can change. Will they be like mine? You have your father’s mouth—a big, fat Cupid’s mouth. You look utterly beautiful to me.
You are, dare I say it? Not what I expected. I didn’t know what to expect. An alien, perhaps. A creature bent on tearing my body apart, on changing my life beyond repair. I always wondered how these calm mamas did it: Push a living child out of your own body. How it must hurt!
But here you are, looking up at me with those bizarrely huge eyes. I already forgot the pain!
Your name is from the Hebrew Gabriel, which means “Strong Man of God.”
And you’re a woman! Strong woman.
Like Gabriela Mistral. Like Gabriel García Márquez.
Like you, my Gabriella Richards.
Do you notice how easily you can say Gabriella in English and in Spanish? Because you’re going to have to speak both.
You notice I’m writing to you in Spanish?
Spanish only in this book! This is your book. From me to you, so you don’t forget who you are and where you came from.
So, my love, good night on this first night.
Bienvenida, querida Gabriella.
Te adoro.
Mamá
I had never been a writer. My means of expression had always been visual, out there for everyone to see. Then I got pregnant, a totally unplanned occurrence. At first I was truly furious with your dad, even though I knew it wasn’t his fault. It was the last thing I wanted, a baby. I mean, yes, I knew one of these days I’d be a mom. I just didn’t figure it had to be quite now, when things were just starting to happen, when I had finally lined up shows and assignments.
And then, you started to grow inside me. It’s quite extraordinary, really. One thing is to get pregnant and intellectually know that you’ll have a baby in nine months. Quite another is feeling that baby evolve within you.
“There is a maternal instinct,” I told your dad one night as I rubbed lotion onto my ever-growing belly, “and it’s been awakened!”
I began writing this diary the day I felt you move inside me for the first time. Quite a jolt. Your dad was away and I was lying in bed, watching TV. And then, the barest of flutters, like butterfly wings. I thought it was my pregnant mind’s imaginings. And then it came again, so soft but so persistent. My belly was almost flat still. But now, the truth was undeniable. Something alive was inside me. I’ll have you know that I quit smoking cold turkey. I quit drinking, too.
I’ll admit. All my life I’ve gotten exactly what I want. But you. You made me responsible.
I bought a red diary because it’s my favorite color and because I figured it would contribute to generating a strong personality for my Gabriella.
Marcus thought this writing kick was funny at first. Then he thought I would drop it in a few weeks. He humored me, because he always does, but I knew he thought it was a short-term project.
Ha!
I’ll show him, you’ll see. I’ll write you. Forever. So you and I can remember everything that happened today, and ten, twenty years from now, we can laugh together.
Or cry.
Just joking!