Seven

It was seven years ago today, a little after 5 a.m., when they handed you to us. Your mother had been sitting in a rocking chair in our apartment the afternoon before, and felt a little tinge of something that seemed worth investigating. I’ll leave it to her to fill you in on the clinical details somewhere down the road. Let’s just say we were sufficiently motivated on a Saturday afternoon to grab our “go” bag and head into the hospital, where we got the confirmation we were hoping for. You were on the way.

Once we were admitted – and my role was basically reduced to administering ice chips and verbal reassurances while trying not to pass out – I remember coming to the strong realization that when we left this place it would be with you. Our two was turning into three. Our marriage was turning into a family.

Seven years ago today, we traded the lives we were living, the only ones we’d ever known, for you. We traded quiet Sunday mornings with coffee and the paper and pleasant mid-afternoon phone calls plotting spontaneous dinners at favorite restaurants for diapers, sleep deprivation and stuffed animals. And it was the best deal we ever made.

Tonight after work I picked you up at dance class. Like we do most every Tuesday night, we stopped off at a little Italian place on the way home for some dinner. You had your usual Caesar salad with the special lemon vinaigrette dressing, and then we split a pizza. You were tired walking in the door and ready to leave mid-way through the first slice. When I motioned to my half-full glass of wine in an appeal for more time you said, and I quote, “Come on, Dad, slurp it down!” True to yourself, Madison, to the end. No matter what life throws at you, I hope it’s something you never lose.

And happy birthday.