Three years ago right now, I was wondering aloud if I might be in labor. As it turns out I wasn’t in labor but my body WAS sending me a very clear message: GET THIS THING OUT OF ME!
And so a few hours later, I got my wish. I only got to touch my baby once that night, when I put my hand through a hole in the thick plastic box she was in, and she wrapped her fingers around one of mine. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the memory of those few days without her, when I truly felt like I would jump out of my skin if someone didn’t find a way to get me my baby, that causes me to snake my hand over to her during the night, just to feel the soft velvet of her cheek, as if I need to verify that she’s here, that she’s mine, that no one has taken her from me.
Today my middle child (will I ever get used to saying that?) turns three. She sang Happy Birthday to herself this morning. Before we were even out of bed she was grinning impishly down at me, excited about cake and presents and trading some of her suckies for play-dough, and getting a new pillow because the one she’s carried around for 2 years (a hand-made flannel pillow that I sewed for her sister 5 years ago) finally died in the washing machine this week. We set out for the store for fabric (she picked blue flannel with penguins on it) and a pillow form (PSA: When sewing pillows for children, make sure the case is removable and use a pillow form), and she picked a Dora pay-dough set for her trade.
She spent the afternoon with her grandpa and her sister, running errands in town, eating junk food, skipping her nap. Tonight we’ll surprise her with a cake and candles, and the one present she hasn’t opened yet, a DVD of Alice In Wonderland. I couldn’t find a copy of The Wall to go with it, and besides, that’s a 14th birthday present, right?
Happy Birthday, ToddlerA.