I remember standing in the living room of a teeny tiny yellow house.
It had been raining.
It was dark.
It was that time of day that was no longer night, but not yet morning.
The world slept.
I held on to your dad tightly, rocking back and forth, sure that I would die any minute.
Watching the clock, timing contractions, wondering when to go to the hospital.
Wishing each minute would pass faster, instead of
If only time could speed up, and I could hurry you out into the world.
Finally, you came.
And here you are, this morning.
Six years old.
Six years later.
We did it.
I love you.