Happy Birthday Maggie Monkey

Maggie turned 7 today.

Seven years ago last night, I interrupted Scot's National League Playoff game between the Braves and.... , well, it doesn't matter, to announce that my water broke. To which Scot replied "are you sure?" Same damn answer I got when I told him I was pregnant. Anywho, my worry-free life ended on that couch that evening. For that matter , none of the furniture, precious heirlooms or antiques have ever been the same.

Maggie arrived 30 days early. She was 5"15 and as bald as Mr. Clean. Her premature entry was the first sign that the kid would have major control issues. She still does things her way, when she wants to do them. She also made it known that she would eat enough to sustain life, but not enough to make
me feel like she had a cushion against the rough ills life would throw at her. As an infant she wouldn't nurse. The hard-sucking payoff wasn't enough. These days we still goad her to eat, her ribs visible beneath her thin t-shirt. It's funny how that early personality tends to stick.

My little Monkey has morphed into a trooper. She's my good sleeper, my great student, and my devil with a heart. She was the one that broke me out of my selfish existence, and continues to be the child that challenges me every waking moment. Tonight after I wished her a final "happy birthday" and closed her door, she yelled for me. I opened her door and asked what she wanted. I expected to hear "Tell daddy I love him" or "Can I sleep with Bernice?". But tonight she wanted me. "Mommy, give me another kiss." Another kiss. Of course my love. The best present you could ever give this mother on your birthday.

I love you, Maggie.