This is my birthday week.
I don't remember the day I was born. My Mom survived nine months of me growing inside her. She nurtured me and provided sustenance. I gave her morning sickness and all sorts of bodily discomforts.
She eagerly anticipated my arrival. I'm guessing she didn't think much about band-aids and skinned knees. She didn't think of who I would grow into or my achievements. She probably just wanted her body back.
And then that day came.
My Mom studied Library Science so she kept records of everything. Here's what she wrote in her journal on my Birth Day:
Arose at 7 AM. Birth imminent.
Regular routine until 11 AM
To hospital at 12:00
Dr gave okay at 2:30 PM
Broke water and delivered 2:47 PM
Terrible birth pains
Stayed in bed for 24 hours
Felt good; not tired
7 lb 3 oz; 20 inches long
Came home Monday with wagon for children
Slow recovery at first
Lift head immediately
I suppose that Radio Flyer red wagon was a peace offering for my older brothers and sister for my intrusion into their routine.
Love the final note, "Lift head immediately." There's probably a bunch of neurological reasons for that, but I'll go with my interpretation: I needed to get the best view of what's going on! Curious about life from the start! Literally, a Head Start!
Well, I don't remember the day of my birth, but she did.
In my mid-twenties, I started a new birthday tradition.
I sent my Mom a Thank You card.
My birthday became my 1:1 personalized Mother's Day.
Mom passed away a couple decades ago. Too young and before I could ask her so many questions about my birth and first year. Questions like:
I miss you, Mom, especially on this very special day when people celebrate me.
It's lovely to receive so many well wishes on my birthday. I accept them and place them into my heart. Then, I bundle them up.
And send my Mom one Big Thank You.
Hey Mom! Thank you for my life.
On this day, I celebrate You.