Seven years ago today, the O.R. nurse laid a squalling, purple human being in my arms and my last coherent thought before passing out from exhaustion and anesthesia was, “So…that’s who’s been kicking me.”
Seven years ago today, the two of us became the three of us, and things like dinner reservations, airplane tickets, and trips to the grocery store became infinitely more complex, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Seven years ago today, as a tiny fist curled around my finger, I saw the next fifty years in a blinding flash of scraped knees, new dresses, first dates, and grandbabies, and I prayed that time would slow down enough to hold all the giggles and all the tears and every treasured moment of solemn happiness ahead.
Seven years ago today, I gave birth to one little girl and a million questions—some of them hers, but most of them mine. The one I can never answer: Am I doing this right?
Seven years ago today, my life and my heart stretched in directions I didn’t know existed, and it hurt. A lot. It still hurts, all those hopes and fears jostling for elbow room, and the love, too big for my heart’s bounds, spilling all over everything and making a glorious mess.
Seven years ago today, the man I married became a Dad, and I fell in love with him again over dirty diapers and Lego towers, our romance deepened by 2 a.m. feedings and playdates at the park. The way his eyes softened when he first looked at her is burned sweetly into my memory.
Seven years ago today, life as I knew it ceased to exist, and something richer, fuller, and more perilous took its place. I don’t know what’s around the next corner, but whatever it is, I’ll always be glad I came this way.
Seven years ago today, she took the stage–and now I’m standing in the wings, breathlessly waiting to see what happens next.
Happy Birthday, Katie.