On the day you were born, I remember it well, the room, the people there. It was not long, you were quick, like your brother. You had white hair that stood straight up when it was washed, and pale blue eyes. You were so fair, like a little angel.
The room had pink flowers on the wall and your brother and sister were there. It was afternoon when you arrived and at first, they told me you were a girl. Amy, you would have been. But then they looked again. You cried and cried, until you were snuggled warm and held close. I tucked you in my arm that night, both of us snuggled down tight in the hospital bed. You fit in my arm, all 9 pounds of you.
Now today, just shy of your 14th birthday, I watch you sleep, sick in bed. You still look like a little boy, though you tower over me. Your white hair is gone, replaced by a mop now sandy. Your eyes are still pale but with green as well, like your brother. You no longer fit in my arm, but still like to lay your head on my shoulder when you are tired, or when you tell me all about your day.
One this is certain, mothering never ends. It will follow you all the days of your life, as long as I am here. So sleep now and I will watch over you, while I remember the day you were born.