September 2, 1971.
The day my life changed forever.
I knew where babies came from but had limited knowledge of how they are born.
"I think something's happening down there," I said to no one in particular.
Shortly thereafter, my plump-cheeked, bald-headed baby girl was born.
Fast forward 42 years.
That baby has grown into a woman I'm proud to call daughter.
She is beautiful, wise, and witty.
She adores the color green, crows, movies, and books.
She has never met a quilt she didn't like.
She eats beets, drinks Kentucky bourbon, and makes a mean guacamole.
She loves deeply and dislikes mean people.
She has a warm spot in her heart for furry four-legged creatures, a good pen, Las Vegas, and John Denver songs.
She is a Tough Mudder, swims like a fish, dances when the mood hits and takes naps.
She is a sister, wife, niece, cousin, friend, manager, co-worker extraordinaire.
I think it should be against the law that mothers do not live close enough to their children so they can celebrate birthdays together. But until that happens, I have to rely on the US Postal System, AT& T and Apple computers to let her know how much I love her.
Have a happy day, my sweet girl.
May all your wishes come true.
May the year ahead be filled with all your favorite things.
Your mother loves you more than anything you can think of times 100.