"I can't believe I'm six!"

This is what my daughter said today on her sixth birthday. Probably because I kept saying, "I can't believe you are going to be six!" on the weeks and days leading up to it.

Six years ago, just before midnight on February 13th, I was going to bed dreading having to work the next day when my water broke. Well, it didn't break so much as slightly trickle, really. Which is why I thought maybe I had peed on myself. I wasn't due for two more weeks, and "they" (whoever "they" are) say that first babies tend to be late, so I figured it would be early March before Emberlynn Grace would, well, "grace" us with her presence (pun totally intended). My husband and mom finally convinced me I should go to the hospital, even though I knew I would be upset with myself if I had, indeed, peed on myself.

But nearly thirteen hours later, I was pushing, in so much pain but with so much anticipation, excited but scared beyond measure, and she was here. When I saw her face, there were no words. Just tears and floods of overwhelming, unexplainable emotion.

My daughter has no idea how much I love her, that she is a piece of my heart walking around on the outside of my body. She has no idea I was only twenty-one when I had her, that I had no real clue what I was doing, even though I had prepared for parenthood in all the ways I knew how. I wanted to be the perfect mom, and I set these impossible standards for myself. She has no idea that at the end of every day, I question my mothering, hoping that even if I do things wrong or in ways differently than how I planned, she will still feel loved and cherished.

She is my only daughter, and she may always be my only daughter, and I think I have taken that for granted. She isn't a little baby girl anymore. I have this one distinct memory of when she was a newborn baby: she was asleep in the middle of my bed, and I lay next to her watching her for what seemed like hours, thinking how fast she would grow and trying to just take in that moment. I swore I'd never forget what her face looked like at that moment, how she smelled, how small her hands were, how quick her breaths were. Because I knew I would blink, and it would be gone.

Well, I blinked again, and now she is six.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful, intelligent, creative, loving, silly, amazing daughter.