One year ago today, for the very first time, my biological clock let out a shrill screech. I sat in the hospital with little Clara cradled in my arms and wished for a baby of my own.
For most of my nearly 30 years I had assumed I would have children - though my biological clock apparently didn't have battery back-up and my maternal instincts never really manifested themselves. Yes, I dressed my teddy bear in clothes - but it was teddy, not a doll. Yes, I played house, but my sister was always "the mom." I was always the aunt or some other cool person who went off to work. Yes, I played Barbies, but my Barbies always changed outfits 76 times a day and never had a Ken doll or kids (the Ken doll was my sister's). Clearly, I was not cut from the "mothering" cloth. I was much more interested in designing roadways and buildings for my brother's matchbox cars, or cooking in the fabulous play kitchen I had, than I was in tending to a wailing baby doll.
We had been trying for a baby for awhile, but even then my biological clock hadn't even so much as ticked. Deep down, I wondered why I'd never felt that pit-of-your-stomach primordial longing for a baby.
It happened that night in the dim hospital room of a suburban Virginia hospital, holding the much-longed for baby of dear friends. I later remarked to Himself that indeed I had a biological clock and it was going off non-stop.
Five days later, we learned of Baby Girl's pending arrival.
It couldn't have happened in a more perfect way than to have the sweet confirmation of my pending motherhood manifested only days after I realized that I indeed had that deep, longing yearning for a child of my own.
Happy Birthday Clara. You will always hold a special place in my heart.
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