For you, again.

This is not a monumental birthday. Not one with a zero or a five on the end. Simply a 23rd. It's not my birthday, either -- I'm a long way from twenty-three.

But, today is my middle child's (and only son's) birthday.

We didn't know what he was before he was born (I knew with both my girls). He was turned wrong during my one and only sonogram so we spent the whole time in the dark. By the time he was born on that hot July day, I was begging my doctor to tie my tubes -- he wisely refused, knowing I was under duress.

The duress came from having a placental abruption, followed by an emergency c-section, blood transfusions and small chunks of lost memory (like the first time I held him). One of the things I remember very clearly -- turned on my side so that all I could see was my doctor's feet -- was the doctor saying that they had to get the baby out before there was a disaster.

And, they did. Wesley was fine, had weathered the storm. I wasn't so lucky -- in fact, I remember at one point, looking at my husband -- who as a physician knew all the things that can and will go wrong -- and asking him if I were going to die. I survived, though I had to spend nearly ten days in the hospital.

I was one sick puppy, I can tell you that. And I didn't want to go through it again but went on to have another child anyway (and, yes, there were problems -- most likely caused by the abruption -- but different).

But, for Wesley, I'd do it all over again. Every single moment.

It was well-worth it.

Happy birthday, little man.

A little man who's now well over six feet tall but still, always, my little boy.