Be Mine.

I miss my mom on Valentine's Day.

She was one of those mothers who gave her daughters valentines. There is something unpseakably precious to me about this. My mother's mother must have given her valentines, and that magic, unlike the woman, was never lost to her.

And so it is not lost to me.

I carry those simple or elegant or candy-flavored love tokens in my heart and bring them out for a good airing every February 14.

If God gives me a sassy, affectionate, hazel-eyed girl or two, I'll blow the same loving fairy dust on them and tell them about the valentines I used to open from the amazing woman they call Nana.

The Agony and the Ecstacy

My mother used to say that childbirth hurt like hell, but then it was over and you forgot the pain.

For a full three days after I gave birth I didn't believe her.

After the pain and trauma washed over me like a bloody wave, I never looked back.

The dimly lit room. The hands of strangers clawing at the heart monitors. The firm, steady hand of my husband. My mother massaging my legs. My absent-minded but wise doctor. The incomptent tech. The able young nurse with the timely exortation to "breathe out the pain." And finally, miraculously, unexpectedly, the presentation of a curled up little boy who had been beating out his urgent cry for release.

One year later I remember it all with a thrill.

I'd do it again and more to get you into my arms, into this world.