Eleven years ago, I was twenty one. I was newly married, settled into my first house, and enjoying my first year on my own with my Hubby.
At twenty one years old, I was experiencing many firsts. And of all the shocks to my system that year, having my first baby was by far and away the largest.
And the best.
Eleven years ago today, I was in my hospital room staring at my miracle. He was mine. All mine. It was so hard to wrap my head around the concept that I was completely and totally 100% responsible for this tiny life in front of me.
This tiny, precious most wonderful life.
I sat in my hospital bed, with the glow of the moon outside my window, and I couldn't get enough of my son's face. His noises. His smell.
I have never been the same since that night eleven years ago. I grew up in a matter of seconds. I became selfless, fierce, weak, compassionate and scared to death I might screw this all up.
But here I am, still reveling in the magic that is my oldest son. And he has paved the way beautifully for three younger siblings. He is the product of all my concerned and perfect parenting efforts. He was blockaded by baby enclosures, forced to eat every baby food available on the market, he had strict nap routines and knew his manners.
He still knows his manners.
And I am so very proud of my little guy. Luckily for me the younger three maniacs follow his lead, because Lord knows that could have been a disaster.
Happy 11th birthday to you, my oldest baby. The day you came into this world I was changed forever, from the inside out. And only a tiny piece of the person I was before you remains.
Thank heavens for that, because she wasn't half the person you made me. There is no greater privilege on this planet than being your mom.
None.
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