Today, twenty years ago, I became a mother. There is no greater high in life than the moment the pain of childbirth ends and the child's life begins. It seems almost wrong to take credit for that child when she has worked so hard to define herself and to grow into the incredibly lovely and loving creature that she is. But just as one lays out the designs for a garden to grow successfully through the seasons, the mother looks far into the future and makes plans for a life well lived.
On that day when C was born, I could have turned cartwheels down the hall of the hospital. I felt superhuman in strength and I was giddy with excitement. That little, tiny swaddled child slept peacefully beside me throughout that day, her perfect nose and eyes and tiny lips mesmerized me. And when my mother arrived and took C into her arms, I felt as if I had delivered the perfect gift to her. I have never seen such joy (that was my mother's middle name) play across her face. And little C and my mother bonded like no others have, I am sure, in that sweet moment.
Would that my mother could be with us today to meet this fabulous girl with the raven red curls, the broad shoulders and the self assurance that is tougher and stronger than the granite substrate of the Yosemite cliffs and boulders she scampered over this summer. She would meet a young woman that would give her a greater thrill and pride than on that day she first held her. Our C was an extension of ourselves, a tiny child harboring a piece of each of us as part of her DNA infrastructure, seeds of our individual selves, planted so that all three of us could walk gracefully together into the future. The Putterer
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