Eleven years ago tonight, I entered the hospital.

I was miserable.

I was pregnant.

A smartass male nurse, the type with the witty repartee you see on TV but so rarely encounter in real life, sauntered in around midnight, began my evil Pitocin drip and handed me a very pretty little Haldol capsule.

Jose said enjoy, chica. This will be the last night of full sleep you will have for eighteen years.

Brother was not kidding.

And yet…

It sounds so cliché to say that I wouldn’t trade a second of time with my daughter, Anya, but it’s true. Well, maybe those two broken arms. Those weren’t much fun, to be honest. And I can do without the drama queen meltdowns she seems to be quite fond of these days. And all the “in a minutes,” that seldom come to fruition when I “remind” her to do her chores.

But I digress.

Actually, the above isn’t entirely true. Because what comes on the opposite side of the broken arms and the meltdowns are the hugs, kisses, snuggles, and talks. The bonding and the closeness, the tears and conversations about the unfairness of the world, the beauty of the stars, and caressing the sweet softness of her little brother as he sleeps.

Precious treasures that I keep folded closely inside my heart.

Her gift to me.

Happy birthday, baby.