A hotdog with mustard changed my life nineteen years ago. 

  

Late  in October, after fifteen hours of labor, I decided to defy the laws of logic by feeding my (already in turmoil) stomach a hotdog with mustard. I didn't even like mustard. But more, I didn't like having to wait for you for another minute. I'd been waiting for you since I'd found out about you the beginning of March. Really, I'd been waiting for you most of my life, as do all girls with dreams of motherhood. 

 That hotdog changed things. My piddly do-nothing contractions accepted my challenge. I didn't know they were piddly until the real pains came on...after the mustard. I battled pains for seventeen more hours before you arrived the next morning. I believe it was on a Friday. 

Funny how, when they brought you up close to my face and I talked to you, both our terrors ceased.  We knew each other already. 

Within days, memory of life before you was fuzzy. 

Your dad and I had no idea what we were doing even though we had taken birthing classes. I'd practiced diapering and soothing my fussy nieces and nephews but this was different. Your dad told his two friends who were afraid to hold you, to hold you like a football. He also called for your nurse at the first surprising diaper no one had warned us about. 

Those first days were terrifying and wonderful. 

I've gotten used to both of those emotions. Parenthood can easily be compared to a rollercoaster ride, but there's still an important difference. I've ridden "The Judge Roy Scream" at Six Flags more than twenty times. At this point I can handle when the coaster goes careening down those steep rickety tracks. I know what happens. With the ones you love, life continues in unexpected twists and turns. 

Life with you has had a steady element of surprise and thrill (with still a little bit of terror). This has been especially true as you've traveled off to college. You're making your own decisions.  You're buying your own gas and getting yourself up for class without me there to remind you to not forget your notebook. I'm not there to tell you to fix the left side of your hair seeing it looks like clown hair because you took a shower and then went back to bed and fell asleep on it. 

But there's also still wonderful. There's a new kind of wonderful. Texts and phone calls aren't taken for granted. You won't find me telling you that "hugs shouldn't hurt" like I did when you were four and your hard (and sometimes out of nowhere) hugs seized my breath and near cracked my ribs. 

I anticipate hearing about each new exciting thing you're doing like writing articles for "The Houstonian", the school paper. I'm still working up the nerve to ask you to send me a picture of you or your new friends every once in a while but I've held on to that weirdness so far. 

This new chapter has been trying to say the least. But in all the newness and sadness and through the frightening, I know what happens. 

 I can look back through every year and see how wonderful God's plan has been so far and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that His plan is in a most exciting stage for you now. I can see how He is "working for the good" in your life; you've been called according to His purpose. I'm a grateful spectator who's hanging on to her mom-powered binoculars. 

This is your first birthday away from home. I'll spend today wondering what you're doing, limiting my texts to let you enjoy a little bit of it. I'll spend the day thinking over just how thankful I am for your humor and your love of deep conversation. 

Your dad and I are proud of you. We love you like we did so many October 30 mornings ago. But we love you different. Deeper. 

Thankful for that hotdog with mustard that precipitated your coming nineteen years ago. 

Happy birthday Hayden