She was born on a Monday.
Hers was not a delivery of water breaking and husband waking, contractions aching and “it’s time!” mistaking; it was planned for convenience (my doctor’s) and impatience (my own). My body signaled “ready” and when her due date came…and went…we chose her birth date already known by God. He winked at me.
I was expectant and expectant–two very different things–and I remember the solemnity of our drive to the hospital. It began with a gift, a gold cross embedded with sapphires, a necklace I had seen and wanted but never considered buying. It often strikes me as odd that Christians wear an instrument of death as jewelry, but I suppose it’s a symbol of “remembering”…of dying to self, that it’s no longer I who lives, but Christ. Even with the cross adorning my neck, I forget too often.
This was a day to labor, the fruit of which I’d hold in my arms by sundown. I would feast on her and she would bring a filling that was good and satisfying and right. And she would feast on me and I, in turn, would provide filling to a belly that didn’t yet understand hunger.
For a season, she needed me to survive; she no longer needs me like that. Which is the way it should be.
She’s 17 today and in her I’ve found I no longer want to add years to my life just for the sake of living, I hope for more years to see her grow into who she will become. To know her as adult, mother, friend. To meet my grandchildren.
I don’t want to be only a better mother because of my children, I want to be a better wife, a better person…. They challenge me in a thousand ways without even knowing it!
My daughter is Monday’s child. She’s fair of face. Today, we celebrate her life.