I remember floating on a giant inflatable fluorescent blue raft with you inside me in the heat of July in August in Maryland the amniotic fluid keeping time with the waves in the pool. I was 23 years old and had never held a baby. Your nursery was ready with pale yellow walls and a spindle crib and many receiving blankets ready to receive you. Whale-like, I waited for you. I thought labor was more bearable without other humans in the room so every time someone checked, I would say not really having many pains, and so the door would close and they would go away. Those white coated squishy shoed white hat people with their metallic necklaces of stethoscopes and pocket protectors and nurses even wore white caps then.

Maybe I wanted you all to myself for as long as I could help you.

Finally, I could feel you saying you were ready to come to life. I pushed the call button and the nurse came and said, but we need to give you the drugs now. Finally the doctor pitter pattered in as she was very tiny. She took one look and said get the saddle block. I remember thinking this was no time to take a ride. She had instruments that look like giant ice cream scoops without the bowls at the end or hooks that you would use to reach something very high and I know she use them to pull you out despite my thoughts I couldn’t verbalize them. What did I know? I was only 23.

I had you. I was terrified of you. I wanted everything to be perfect. I had a baby nurse because I was afraid of you. My husband said I was still fat so I should not eat anything. I remember one day we went to Nordstroms, you and me,  and I had you in your carriage in the corner so I could see your face while I tried  on  dress  after dress trying to find one that would be the right one for when you were christened.

Your head anointed with water to bless you and keep you and yet I failed you. I wasn’t the mother that you deserved because I hadn’t had the mother that I deserved or maybe that’s Karma. But it’s your birthday. In looking back, I realize I never had enough birthdays with you. I never ate enough cake with you. I never gave you enough gifts. I never told you how much I loved you enough and how perfect you were and how you would always have a home with me. There are so many things that I should’ve told you.I don’t believe in life after death I believe that you suffer in this life and you can’t expect any respite, but I will never stop wishing I could see your face and hear your voice and feel your rough little hand in mind again so I could wish you happy birthday. Just wanted to tell you how much I love you.