Today is my son's first birthday.
Every year on my birthday, my mother calls me -- not just to sing "Happy Birthday," but to recount the story of my birth.
Highlights from the story include:
*High on anesthesia, Mom saw my father and told a nurse, "I think I know that man."
* The nurses in the nursery called me "Rosebud," because of my ruddy pink skin and (if you ask Mom) my delicate beauty.
* One nurse fell asleep while rocking me, and Mom flipped out.
* The day I was born was the best day of her entire life.
I always thought that last statement was sweet, but I never really understood how much she meant it until now. And frankly, I never thought I'd ever be the one saying anything remotely like that. Ever in my life. Ever.
But here I am.
I had a few minutes alone with my baby this morning, feeding him a bottle. As we sat there, quiet and cuddly, I found myself telling him the story of the day he was born.
After all, it is his birthday.
Highlights from the story include:
*Acupuncture induced my labor.
* We had to "walk the halls" until they could check me in a hospital room, and a custodian found me groaning and laboring on my hands and knees in an empty conference room.
* While I was getting an epidural, I buried my head in the ample, comforting bosom of a Trinidadian nurse named Anselma.
* It was the best day of my entire life.
While my baby probably didn't understand what I was saying, I like to think he understood what I was feeling. Feeling nostalgic. Feeling intense, immeasurable love. Feeling incredibly fortunate.
And also feeling glad that I still have a few good years before he starts rolling his eyes when I tell him this story.
But when he does, I'll know that deep down inside, he secretly loves hearing it.
Because I sure did.
Thanks Mom.
Happy Birthday, Elrod.
