She changed me.
The day she was born, it was my father’s 48th birthday. Labour was intense, long and absolutely terrifying. I was just twenty-three and having this wee creature entirely on my own. When she finally came into this world… exhausted and terrified that my limp arms couldn’t hold my child… I asked them to “bring her to my Dad”.
When he stepped into the room moments later, a small bundle of red hair tucked in the crook of his arm… a smile lighting his face as tears streamed from his eyes… my odd sense of humour couldn’t hold back from telling him what was on my mind… that “next year we’d just have cake.”
Within no time, folks began to arrive… friends, family… more friends. By late afternoon on the most beautiful “Spring” day you’d ever imagine, my room was filled with at least a dozen people, a great many bouquets of flowers, balloons and pink things… a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing… and this tiny bundle of joy.
It wasn’t until that night, when everyone had gone and the lights were low… when quiet had swept throughout the creaky old Grace Maternity Hospital and I found myself all alone and full of wonder as I stared at this precious being that it hit me… I’d never be the same again.
I was a mom.
Twenty wonderful years ago today.