Yesterday was the anniversary of the day I went under the knife. They called it "failure to progress". Which translated into something like "your kid has a big head, your epidural is wearing off, and I have been on call a long time . . . let's get him out." Enter anesthesia and the knife. Experienced docs can have a baby out of you in minutes, let me tell you.
I remember being really disappointed in being robbed of a "natural" delivery. Somehow, I thought it would be better to have brought my son into the world the way nature intended.
Yesterday, as this handsome, bright-eyed, floppy-haired kid stood there, surrounded by his friends, blowing out 11 candles and cracking jokes, I realized it didn't matter how he got into this world. Just that he was here. And mine.
Another year older. But still my first baby.