My Birth Day

Every year on my birthday, I ask my Mom one question, the same question…every year.

“Will you tell me about the day I was born?”

I can’t remember how old I was when I realized that it was tradition?

My Mom still claims that the two days of her life that she remembers most clearly are the days that my brother and I were born. When she talks about these days, she starts to get that look in her eye, and I can tell she’s going back in time.

“You were so cute!”

(She says that every year!)

She starts with the moment she woke up early that morning with contractions, then gives me every detail of her memory until the moment that she walked out of the door of the hospital.

“Having my Baby” was on the radio in the car,
Nebraska played Missouri that afternoon, and
My Dad followed every nurse that tried to take me out of the room.

This was my very first story, and while the details are important…what’s most important is the way hearing this story makes me feel. This was a day that my Mom and Dad had been anticipating with love. It is a nice feeling to be that important to someone.

Important enough that they remember you…
Important enough that they love you, and…

Important enough that they don’t mind when you ask the same question again…and again.