Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Elizabeth turns 23

On Friday, October 4, 1991, HAS and I welcomed our third child into the world. She came easily-- really, one push, and the labor and delivery was natural--no drugs--and she was born with a thatch of thick black hair, and dark-ish skin (why, she looked Hispanic, or Indian), and my first thought was, How did that happen? I am so white I repel the sun--but then I looked at her sun-tanned father,  he of German descent and progeny of proud Nebraska farmers--and then something glorious and profound happened: my brand-new baby opened her eyes and looked directly at me and smiled--I swear it was a smile-- my mother-in-law and husband witnessed it--and I knew at once she was mine and I was hers.
I am so in love with you, she told me, just last night, over her requested birthday dinner of live lobster (cooked), shrimp, boiled potatoes and corn, mint cheesecake for dessert (her sis made it: profanely delicious).
I am so in love with you, I said in return.
My Elizabeth, pictured here with my favorite son.
We looked directly at each other, twenty-three years after our initial contact.
She is mine, and I am hers.

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