Today, my darling daughter, it is your 40th birthday.
I can not believe it has been forty years since I gave birth to you. I don’t feel forty years older! It seems like just yesterday that I danced under the light of the full moon (all 195 pounds of me), hoping that an old wives' tale was true. It must have been, because seven hours later you were born.
You know that I have always felt that the anniversary of your birth is more of a celebration for me than for you. It is a celebration of the day your father and I received the most precious gift in the universe; it is a celebration of love, it is a celebration of memories, it is celebration of what matters most in life.
On this day, as I celebrate your birth, my normally transitory memory has perfect recall on the joys and, sometimes, heartache that being your mother has given me.
I remember: an aspiring (but doomed) ballerina, a published writer, an eloquent public speaker, a budding actress, a political activist – and all before you were even twelve! It would take a book to chronicle your journey to adulthood. My participation in that journey has been a privilege. You are my heart.
Thank you, God, for her.
Thank you, Catherine, for you.