Today is cause for a celebration.
Exactly twenty three years ago, after nearly 70 hours of labor, my youngest daughter Meredith was born. At home. The only attendants were her toddler-sister and her alarmed father.
The midwife set to deliver her had left to refill the oxygen tank and was side-tracked by a lunch offer. I waited for her as long as I could, until the pain in my back took a sudden turn, and very quickly, Meredith was born. The eight pound, bruised and battered baby looked up at me, and it was love.
Other mothers assured me that I wouldn’t ever remember the pain of labor.
I remember. Like it were yesterday.
But what I remember more was how quickly my squalling baby turned into a feisty toddler that turned into a rebellious teenager that turned into a kind, ambitious, and gracious young woman.
Motherhood (parenthood) is a gift. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more, or been less prepared to do. No job I have worked harder at, and still fumbled. And there is absolutely nothing that has given me greater joy. I’m so fortunate to have been a part of this child’s life.
Happy Birthday, Meredith Eleni.
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