Yesterday was my dear daughter Emily's birthday. 17 years old. I can't believe it. She grows more beautiful every day. Last night after all the presents were opened and the cake was eaten, I asked Emily if I've ever told her about her birth story. She said I haven't.
So I told her how we lived in Denver and it snowed on her due date. But she wasn't ready, so a week later I started having pains when I woke up. Her dad had already gone to work. The pains grew stronger. I tried calling him (before cell phones) and couldn't reach him. I went ahead and showered and got all ready. Called again, left a message with a Russian man who didn't speak English very well. I hoped he would get the message. I was starting to get nervous. I called again and was doubled over the table. The pains were bad. Shortly after, Phillip walked in the door and away we went. I couldn't do anything but lay down in the backseat. We'd never been to the hospital in downtown Denver before. He missed the exit. My water broke. I cried. I wanted to push. I cried some more. We arrived and he carried me inside where a team whisked me off. No time for drugs. Push. About twenty minutes after we got there Emily Lyn Cook was born. They placed her in my arms and she was sticking out her tongue. Cute as a bug.
And she's been that way ever since.