9/11

For thousands, this was a day of mourning in 2001. For me, ten years earlier, it was a day of incredible joy. It was the day I first became a mother, the day I completed a rite of passage I had both feared and anticipated, the day I welcomed my firstborn to the world and marveled over her tiny perfect body as she nursed.

Today, nearly a year after her death, we celebrated her entrance into the world seventeen years ago by making fuse bead creations and playing 10,000 as we ate jellybeans and listened to her favorite music. We dined on steak and salad followed by ice cream. I think she'd be pleased with our activities.

In the days leading up to her birthday, I thought about her more and more often. Yesterday, the day labor began seventeen years ago, and today I thought about her constantly. Now I lost the mucus plug. Now we went out to lunch. Now contractions were so strong we drove to the hospital. Now I peed all over the nurse and doctor with my first push. And more times than I can count, I thanked the universe that I didn't know then all that would later come to pass.

I meant to celebrate her life today, but I couldn't fend off a deep sense of mourning. I remember so clearly how overjoyed I was with her, how happy to be a mother, how much I had looked forward to meeting her. She was as perfect a baby as any other, as perfect as Tilo, and I think his presence brings her babyhood back into focus at moments like these. I mourn the beautiful little life that was born that day, now gone for good.