I can't believe that your first birthday has come and gone and you are a year old already. Last year, I left home to go to the doctor feeling pretty sure it would be your birthday. I also felt pretty sure I could leave my bag and your daddy at home and come back for them in the time between my appointment and the hospital. As it turns out, I was instructed by the doctor not to go all the way home and not to eat anything because he was gonig to try to get the very next operating room. I phoned Daddy and arranged for him to meet me (I had to get him a ride too because I left home in one car with both sets of keys!). And then I wondered what I should do with this snippet of time until you were born. I stopped in the Adoration chapel, but I just couldn't be still and quiet for that long. There was too much excitement. It was just me and you....waiting together. I opted for a pedicure! I sat in the massage chair and rubbed my belly while it rubbed my back. I painted my toes blue for your birth. I didn't talk much at all. I closed my eyes and felt the warm water, the relaxing rubbing, and waited for you. As soon as I was done, my phone rang and the nurse instructed me to be at the hospital as soon as possible. Shortly afterwards, you were born. My easiest C-section yet. Daddy, on the other hand, had not such an easy time. A stomach bug made him queasy and he had to leave the delivery. And he couldn't stay with us very long for fear of getting you sick. So that evening I found myself once again in the quiet--just me and you. I tried to soak you in as much as I could. I worked to nurse you well and I bathed and dressed you. 
Just like that day, you have been throughout this year, my quiet pleasure, my "spa moment" in the midst of busy days. Waking early with just you is my time to reflect, pray, and gather my thoughts for the day ahead. Your presence somehow helps. It gives purpose to my plans. In the afternoon, when I make a cup of tea and stretch out across my bed for a few minutes, it is you who joins me. I do my best to make you giggle. Your laughter refreshes my spirit, gives me strength for the rest of the day. In the evenings, as bath time progresses with a flourish of splashes and suds and wet towels, there is a quiet moment when a baby sits alone in just a little warm water, smiles and gently bats at the bubbles, then gets wrapped up, rubbed down, and tucked in. Those last few moments of your day are precious to me. They signal that my rest too has begun. And it is you who relaxes me, melts away the day's aches, and makes me ready for my own evening routine.
Yesterday morning on your birthday, we were camping. We headed out for a little hike before leaving. We walked in a little way, and then sat at a beautiful spot while Daddy and the big boys walked further in. Evan collected "pine worms" and placed them in the bottom of your stroller, and you sat. Quietly you fingered leaves of bushes and pointed to butterflies, you babbled "mama" and sang your baby songs to me. You never cried, never reached for me to pick you up. You just sat with me, my quiet companion. Your brother kissed you and stroked your hair and sang "Happy Birthday", and you listened. He was grateful for your companionship too, someone else not old enough to be one of the big boys yet.
But all too soon you will be one of the big boys and you'll head off down the road further than I can follow. And you bustle and jostle and emit rowdy shouts of companionship with your brothers. I can't wait to see what role you play in the band of brothers one day, but I am eternally grateful for this year that you have been my quiet joy. Happy Birthday, Kolbe Fisher!
