Easter Saturday. Outside the hospital window, I can see the sun is shining as a Swedish flag dances in the gusty wind. At 1:59 P.M., my first-born arrives, and it's a girl.There have been 12 other birthdays since, accompanied by 8 others thanks to the arrival of our son four years later. Having been probably the world's worst at a) being pregnant and b) giving birth, I have never longed for a third child. And as they have grown, I have never even experienced the bittersweetness often associated with the realization that the baby years are over, followed by the toddler years, preschool years, and so on.
Until today.
She is beautiful - my daughter. Her inner light glows far beyond her years. I wish for nothing more than her feeling confident enough to grab onto Life by its horns and explore every avenue she wishes. Yet earlier this morning, lying in her bed with her head resting on my chest in the same manner it did just moments after she took her first breath, I could hear the slight cracking of my heart. I see pictures hanging on our walls, portraying the different phases of her life up until now, and I know all I can do is try to accept the inevitable passage of time.
P.S. I know I am supposed to be grateful and happy for my tremendous good fortune, and I am! But if a girl can't wallow a little in self-pity in her own blog, then just when can she wallow, for God's sake?!
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