This week my baby girl turns eight years old. In some ways it seems as if she has been a part of my life forever. Yet, I cannot believe this little angel is already eight. After the birth of my two boys, my husband and I decided we were finished having children and our family would be complete at four. However, there was a deep longing within me that never quite left. Even though our family was happy and thriving, I always felt as if someone was missing. I assumed that was just how women felt when they decided their child bearing years were over. Basically, I chalked it up to “that is just how it is” and tried to make peace with that longing.

Then at a time when our family most needed a blessing, a time when we needed confirmation of goodness and life, I found out I was pregnant again. To say I was shocked would be the biggest understatement I could possibly make about this event. I took eight home pregnancy tests. (I do realize one would have done it but I knew this pregnancy was impossible and I had to be sure I was not dreaming it up.) After laying all of the tests out side by side seeing all of their various ways of saying that I was indeed pregnant, I sat on the floor and cried. They were not tears of sadness or shock or even disbelief. They were tears of gratitude and joy.

After an entire day and night of contractions, a shot of morphine, being sent home from the hospital, and getting yelled at by the same anesthesiologist who yelled at me LAST time, Molly Elizabeth made her grand entrance on September 1st at 10:15 pm. At 7 pounds 8 ounces she's a whole lot bigger than her brother was.

We are lucky enough to live close to both sets of Jack's grandparents. (And let me acknowledge that we are lucky we can SAY we are lucky enough to live nearby.) Both my parents and Phillip's parents see Jack (and Phillip and me, although who cares about us) at least once a week. They rearranged their homes to accommodate cribs and highchairs. They have toy boxes and books. They have baby pools and baby swings, and when we are visiting the grandparents I do not lift one baby-rearing finger. No wonder we visit so often.

In the last week or two, both sets of grandparents have brought up a very important question, a question I've been putting off because I don't like thinking about it: What are we going to do with Jack when we go to the hospital?

I recently read an article from The Washington Post entitled "Feeling Her Pain," all about men being present in the delivery room. When my parents were born, expectant fathers could be found pacing in the waiting room. By the time my sisters and I were born (70's), many hospitals were beginning to give dads the option of attending the actual birth. Today, it's almost expected that we be in "the room." I attended the births of both of my kids, and I was extremely anxious both times (especially the first time around).

It amazes me that you are closer to being a grown man than you are to that tiny baby I gave birth to 13 years ago.

This morning you stood next to me in the kitchen, I looked up to meet your eyes. You have passed me by a couple several six inches now "Was I born yet at this time, Mom?"

I glanced over at the clock. "No. You were still inside of me. It would be two more hours before you were born."

Thirteen years ago you were still inside me. We were still living as one, you completely dependent on me. Our hearts beating together. In truth I was pushing for an hour already, you were a stubborn little thing — that hasn't changed. But I'll spare you those details about your freakishly large baby shoulders, tears, stitches, and my vagina. You're welcome.