The Blessed Event

The family jokes that our home is a shrine to the Daughter.

On the wall near the staircase hang portraits of her school years from kindergarten through senior year – except eighth grade. We can’t locate that photo, so the natural assumption is she skipped classes that year. Perhaps, she didn’t exist. Her friends insist otherwise. I have no proof.

At one point, Daughter wanted a mural of herself painted on another wall. I had no problem with the concept. Daughter wanted the entire wall. I thought half was acceptable. Mother nixed the plan.

In other rooms are trophies and plaques from her service in Job’s Daughters (if you’ve never heard about it, don’t ask), including a miniature version of the trophy honoring her as Ohio Miss Job’s Daughter (again – don’t know, don’t ask). Let’s just say that for one year she ran the statewide organization and did a magnificent job.

A traveling trunk – a family treasure from the early 1900s that journeyed from Europe to America – contains her papers, drawings, more awards, the pink cast from when she broke her arm, report cards and heavens knows what else. Mother thinks I’m going overboard. I consider it an historical archive.

Apparently, we love and adore her.

The Daughter refers to herself as “The Blessed Event.”

She then thrusts her arms forward with her thumbs upward and quickly points back to herself.

“That’s me!” she replies in Shirley Temple exuberance.

 

To which the Wife and I reply in monotone, synchronized voices, “Thank you for being in our lives. Oh, what would we do without you? Woe was the days before you born.”

(As a point of reference, this “Shirley Temple” is not the nonalcoholic drink but the child actress who boarded a lollipop ship and sympathized with sharecroppers (or was it slaves?).

Mother spent 48 hours in labor. It can go up to 50, depending on who’s telling the story.

When a woman is in labor that long, you do not say or do the following:

*”How are you feeling?” (Got scratched for that one.)

*Write down the time of every contraction. (The nurses don’t care.)

*Leave for an hour to eat in the cafeteria. (That’s considered desertion.)

 *Say to Mother as she’s delivering Daughter, “Hey, you got to come down here and see this.” (Stupid comment, but it’s a spectacular sight.)

The Daughter is quick to say that Mother did the work and I was just the sperm donor.

Today is her 23^rd birthday.

I would like to say Mother and I did a great job of raising her but that would exclude the grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and teachers who guided her along the way. Thank you to all. She’s the best of her parents – and, on occasion, the worst.

The “Blessed Event” is a beautiful young woman. I would lie, however, if I didn’t say how much I miss cuddling that newborn or holding that young girl in my arms. Today, she receives generous hugs and kisses on the forehead from Mother and Father. It’s all good.

Thank you for being in our lives. Oh, what would we do without you?