Months in the making and hours in the delivery, my birthday gift came with all the drama and excitement one would expect from a miracle.
The stork dropped Miss Emilia in my arms on my birthday. Wrapped in a swaddling blanket and baby bonnet, I quickly unwrapped my gift to be sure that all parts were assembled. I had to stand in a long line of expectant siblings, grand parents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles to pass the bundle of wiggly parts around the room. First glimpses, smiles and flashing cameras all gave rave reviews to a tired mother and beaming father.
I hugged my daughter, who told me this was all she had time to get me for my birthday. Interestingly enough, I felt that my daughter was the real gift. One way or the other, we all knew a baby was coming. But my daughter was the most beautiful face in that room. I was so anxious to see her, to hold her, to make sure she was all right. The hours of waiting wore deeply in both our faces and the joyous crowd made it difficult to be heard. I hope she knows that she will always be my baby, no matter how many babies she puts into my arms.
In our heart, in our arms, in our lives, in our thoughts, from the cradle to the crib, to school, down the aisle, to the delivery room and beyond, our children are engraved, sculpted from our very beings. And like any work of art, are priceless and enduring. Today, I celebrate my mother, and her mother, myself and my daughter as we again lay claim to the title "mother and child".
That's what a wise grandma would do.
