Owen was born six years ago today.

I woke up that day when my water broke, six a.m. the day before he was due. My midwife’s apprentice walked through our front door forty-five minutes later, about the same time we realized my midwife wasn’t going to arrive before the baby did. Also about the time we realized I wasn’t going to be moving, not to the bed, not to the bedroom, not anywhere, not at all. That baby was going to be born where I was at that moment, which happened to be on the floor in the living room. Abigail, almost three years old, woke up just in time to sit in Dane’s lap by my side.

We had several telephones in the room—our house phone, the cell phone and pager of the midwife’s apprentice—and they all kept ringing, our midwife and backup midwife both calling for news, both unanswered while Owen slipped into the world, purple and squalling, healthy and whole.

Reggae music played, drifting in the window from a neighbor’s house. It was 7:33 in the morning. Owen breathed immediately, nursed easily, slept often and with gusto, surprising us on all counts.

When her hands were free again, the midwife’s apprentice answered her phone. “We have a baby!” she said. “It’s a boy.” She held the phone out so we could hear our midwife cheering on the other end. We all laughed, startling Owen. He forgave us.

Every day since has been an adventure. I couldn’t begin to guess what will come next, but I wouldn’t miss it, not for anything.

We love you mr. six, every day and always. Happy birthday.