14

July 1, 2015

On June 30, 2001, my first babe was overdue and the signs of her impending birth were starting. At midnight things SEEMED in full swing, so Darin and I trucked to the hospital. We were rejected, as things weren't swinging quite fully enough. We returned home. I was unhappy and more than uncomfortable. I watched "Valley of the Dolls" on late night cable, between toe-curling contractions. Sunday morning came and I was sure I was being turned inside out but--still chapped by being turned away at midnight--unwilling to go back. I would show those smug labor and delivery medical professionals! I thought, through gritty, hold-on-to-the-back-of-the-sofa pain. Finally, when I was fairly certain I would look down and see a little girl plop out smoking cigs and drinking a scotch, my husband and parents convinced me to get in the car and let the medical professionals take over before I had to start sending sandwiches up to her.

Two hours and a miraculous epidural later, Grace Marie did, in fact, emerge. No cigs, booze or sandwiches in sight. Just perfection. 

Each day of these 14 years since, Grace has opened her eyes to a world made better by her place in it. She isn't perfect (she would want me to make that abundantly clear), but she has life by the tail. Had I the ability to design a better daughter, I wouldn't stray from the blueprint God fashioned when somehow He saw fit to let us have her. 

On this, her fourteenth birthday, as she stands tall enough to look me in the eye, I still see that little bundle I held when she was fresh out; and the blonde pigtails that bounced around, keeping up with her toddlering self.  I see the determination she has always had to do everything well, and her way. 

The thing is, I don't just love her. I like her. A lot.

Happy Birthday, Grace. I love you so much that, for once, I don't have words.