amelia

Today Amelia turns 17.

I always thought it was fitting she was born on the first day of spring; it suits her somehow.  (Mark wanted me to "hold it in" just a little bit longer so she could be born at the exact moment when winter turned to spring.) 

The year Amelia was born was cold and snowy.  I know this because I remember the doctor telling me many pregnant women went into premature labor during snowstorms.  I knew there was little hope of that.  And I was right.

I can't say what the weather was like on the day she was born.  We took the subway to the hospital and when she finally arrived it was well after midnight and much too dark to see anything outside.  Nor did I particularly care.  But the day we brought her home was nice.  Not warm, but sunny.  In the cab we heard "The Girl from Ipanema."  I remember looking into her "perfectly round face" (the doctor's words, not mine) and thinking, "She could be the girl from Ipanema if she wanted to."  Except for the tall part.  I knew even then there was little hope of that.  And I was right.

That first spring is something of a blur to me.  What I remember most are the good things: taking long walks in the park, sitting in an outdoor cafe while she napped; sizing up playmates at the playground; staring into her perfectly round face for hours.  And smiling at the grace of God.

Sometimes I wonder when, exactly, she grew up.  When did I stop counting her age in weeks and months?  When did I lose track of her exact weight and height and her shoe size?  When did she stop needing me to pick her friends and arrange her playdates?  And when did I stop dreaming Ipanema dreams for her?  (Have I?)


One thing is for sure from that day to this, from birth to age seventeen:  there are few people who can make me laugh the way Amelia can; few people I would rather spend the afternoon with, walking through the park, sitting in an outdoor cafe, staring into  her beautiful, still perfectly round face; smiling.

It's like a ray of sunshine on the first day of spring.