Three years ago tonight, I was trying to figure out what those weird backache things were that kept me from enjoying Thursday night television. And then we went to the hospital, and things sped up (as they do) so that parts of her chaotic, confused birth are crystal clear, and others (like the memory of the pain, THANK GOD) are receding into the mist.
The memory of the first time I held her, though, is still crystal clear. It was the day after she was born and she was hungry, rooting against me with that rosebud mouth and squalling a little. The nurses were astonished and pleased she was trying to suckle my hospital shirt and urged me to try her out. (We were still pretending I could breast-feed then.)
She was perfect, from her shock of black hair to her tiny bird feet.
And tomorrow is both her third birthday and her first day of pre-school.
Happy Birthday, Rosemary.