I didn't sleep well that night at the hospital, but when the doctor arrived the next morning and said something about "non-productive labor," I had to disagree: I'd painted my toes — quite the feat, considering I'd been pregnant for about 10 years — tried to read (not much luck with that), confirmed my suspicions about late-night television and had chit-chatted the life out of every single topic with Mr. Denney, who has never been that shade of pale again. Ever.
Four hours later, the doctor put you in my arms and my heart was full.
When you started your first day of kindergarten, I watched you march through the doors and my heart was full.
You're 18 today and my heart is full.
Happy Birthday, Sweetpea. Love you.