Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Today I Am Seven and I'm Clever As Clever, I Think I'll Stay Seven Forever and Ever

Dear Sommer,
The day you were born I was sitting in a Principal's Meeting, counting my contractions on a napkin in the Aqua Resort.  I thought you'd take your time, like your brother and sisters, so I wasn't too worried, but everyone around me clung to my notes.  Eight minutes became five and five minutes became three.  I don't know why I was so calm, but I figured I'd prayed for a calm daughter, one that would cling to me unlike her independent and strong willed siblings who I encouraged to speak their minds and explore their surroundings.  I remember asking God to please make this baby want to hang on to my skirt and cry for me when I leave for work.  I even prayed you would have trouble getting out of diapers and giving up your bottle.  
At two minutes I sent a note to the Commissioner.  I am in labor.  May I be excused? To which my colleagues promptly slid their chairs back so I could make my way out of the room.  I drove home, belly bumping the steering wheel, tensing then relaxing as I planned what the next few hours would be like.  You were not calm, and probably never meant to be that way.  You were in a hurry, scooting yourself into my life with the same vivacity you have now.  I walked into my room and packed my bags, ready to take a shower.  I phoned my secretary, standing in the middle of my bedroom and made out two sentences, "I'm in labor, I'm getting ready to . . ." when my water broke! 
Having done this three times before, I soon lost all composure and started to realize that in a matter of minutes I would be in excruciating pain.  Nix the shower, I grabbed the most absorbent thing I could find, Peyton's Pull Ups and put on the the loosest outfit within arm's reach.  I remember Peyton watching me, "Pull Ups are for babies, not mommies!" she scolded.  
The normal eight hour labor I anticipated took about 30 minutes with you, little girl.  I remember the mid-wife telling me, as the epidural needle hung from my spine, that I there was no time for the medicine to kick in, I needed to lay back and push.  You came into the world demanding a dramatic entrance, and that you got.  
Seven years have gone by and I've watched you with amazement.  You are none of the things I prayed for, and everything you were destined to be.  Last night when you said, "I wish I could be a Scientist, then I would make a machine to rewind my day back to my birthday party"  I wished it could happen too, so that when time flies like it does now, I could rewind my day back to the first day I met you.



Who needs paper and pencils when you live on one great big beautiful canvas!

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