It’s just after midnight, and Moon’s birthday is today. She reads this blog, so I can’t tell you what we bought for her or what’s going to happen. You’ll just have to wait. Things are pretty low-key this year. No big party or anything. But I’m already reminiscing about what I was doing 13 years ago … specifically, timing my contractions. Pete was asleep. I watched the digits on our clock radio, too nervous to close my eyes. (I might miss something, you know.)

At about 4 a.m., I woke Pete, took a shower and grabbed my stuff. We had about a half hour drive to the hospital, and I used the moon as a focus point during my contractions in the car. (Hmm, I just remembered that detail. Interesting.) By 5:30 we were checked in.

The rest of the day was a blur. I was exhausted from staying awake all night (shades of things to come!), and the whole labor thing was rather rough. Long story short, I had an epidural, pushed for four hours, and asked for a second opinion after my doctor recommended a c-section. The second doctor – who was, and I’m not making this up, the first doctor’s dad – agreed on the cesarian, but somehow I talked them into letting me try a forceps delivery. Suddenly, as if someone had yelled, “Hey! Difficult delivery in room 440!” about a dozen more people wearing scrubs gathered at my feet.

“Welcome to my birthing experience!” I announced. At least I hadn’t lost my sense of irony.

We went to work. Right as I had reached the end of my rope, as I was ready to say, “take me to the operating room,” Moon appeared. A beautiful, 8-pound 13-ounce red-haired cherub. In that moment, my entire life changed. I changed, too.

And now I’m going to be the mother of a teenager. Another new adventure with my MoonChild.