Thirty years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to a little discomfort. Something was up. I wondered, is this it? Is this the day my baby arrives? I sat up marking contractions. As they got closer and closer, I woke my husband, called the hospital, and away we drove to check in and prepare for his arrival.
Thirty years ago—a sunny Tuesday on the cusp of spring—I delivered my precious, perfect, baby. He looked like a tiny, wise old man! I held him in my arms, stared at his tiny, sweet face, and wondered, who ARE you?? And then he moved his hip in my hand–a movement I had been feeling daily in my belly for weeks on end. My God, it’s YOU! I thought. I know you! Oh, my God, how I love you!
Thirty years ago, I became a mother…then a mommy…then a mom. Thirty years ago, I looked my precious baby in the face, held him close to my heart, and told him how glad I was that he was born.
Thirty years later, I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember the touch of his skin, his baby breath, his tiny toes, his impossibly small fingernails, the barely there weight of him in my arms. I remember looking into his eyes and speaking his name. Kenny. My Kenny. My Kenny.
Thirty years later, I am stunned that I am remembering his birth without him here by my side. But that doesn’t change that he was here, that he lived for nearly thirty years, that I am his mother, that he is my son, and that I am still so very grateful he was born.
I love you, I love you, I love you, sweet baby of mine. May your birthday fall gently on all who love you, and may you be celebrating with abandon, always knowing how deeply loved you are.
Happy birthday, my son. I’ll celebrate you forever.
Mom ❤️
