Our Special Day

Dear Mimi,


Thirty-one years ago, on the way to the hospital, you were having some doubts. You told Dad to turn the car around -- you were fine, you didn't need to go to the hospital. It was two weeks earlier than you expected to be making this trip. Plus, you didn't like those pale and pasty chubby babies with no hair. I like to imagine that you made the 'yuck' face as you delivered this speech.


The next morning, at 5:55 a.m., I arrived -- long and skinny, with a thick tuft of black hair, and quite ruddy. You told me I was everything you didn't expect a baby to be, to your surprise and delight.



Every August 8th, early in the morning, you would sneak into my room and wake me. When I was older and lived elsewhere, you would call. You always started with the same line, and this year it would have gone like this:
                                 
   Thirty-one years ago, you and I had a very special day!

Sometimes you told me the story of my birth. Other times you talked about how miraculous it was to feel me growing inside you. The wonder of our intertwined systems, and shared blood, shared food. Every time, you told me how much you loved me, and how much you loved being my mom. And every time, I thanked you for making me, having me, loving me.


I missed you, and your call, on our special day.


Thanks for making me,


A