Portrait of the Artist at 3

My beautiful only child turned 3 today.  It was a miracle that I conceived her, and only God's grace and her and my ornery stubborness got us through to the day of her birth by C-section, three years ago.  We insisted on fighting for ourselves and for each other, and wouldn't give up even when the medical community said our odds were definitely not high.  We found other doctors, physicians who were willing to fight alongside us to see her safely into the world, and my mother and her father ferociously protected us from dangers, whether physical or emotional.

There's my little artist, decorating the coffee table with stickers, photographed in her natural environment, i.e. a blurry picture due to her relentless movement.  She is the joy of my life, the light of my eyes and sometimes my only remaining proof of God's presence.  We had her birthday party two days before her actual birthday, on Palm Sunday, because the rest of the family works on weekdays, and as on the day of my wedding, not another living soul among my blood relatives was there.  See, I'm really not exaggerating, or simply being melodramatic, when I say that at times, my life really sucks, and is truly beautiful, amazing and miraculous, simultaneously.  Happy birthday, miracle child.  I hope I can successfully pass on to you a tenth of the amazing birthright which family members you never knew left in my safe-keeping, trusting in me with their very lives, their every deepest wish and hope and belief, that I would see those gifts entrusted to you along with my own for children I, in turn, may never meet.