Thirteen years ago today your dad and I were on the way to the hospital at 7:30 am. It had been prearranged, no late night hurried packing for us, or a mad dash to the hospital. You had decided you didn't want to be born, and two weeks was the longest they would let me go. So they were ready and waiting for us.
For the last few months I had been singing to you, and reading to you, and imagining what you would look like. As all parents do, I was hoping for ten fingers and ten toes.
You arrived just before 9 pm that night, and we were smitten.
The first year was an adjustment. Lack of sleep, late night feedings, and watching as you wrapped us around your tiny little finger.