Certain days etch themselves into our souls becoming moments that time could never erase. July 14, 1979 my oldest son was born, bringing love, wonder, and excitement into my life. God blessed me with the perfect child.
July 13th, the morning was heavy with summer and the air felt thick, as if even the sky was holding its breath. We’d spent the day driving through the Sierra Nevada Mountains while singing “Blood on the Saddle” to lighten the mood. Every good country girl knows a bumpy ride in a pickup truck is a great way to start labor. As kids ourselves, we were terrified about the hours ahead that would turn us into parents.
When labor started late in the afternoon, we’d chosen to stay close to the hospital at the local Holiday Inn. In the middle of a very restless night, it was finally time to meet our new baby.
Checking into the hospital, things quickly became all too real. No longer just a class about labor and delivery, we were experiencing THE EVENT of our lives in real time. The sterile scent of the hospital, antiseptic and cold, mingled with something warmer. The faint aroma of coffee from a distant breakroom mixed with the fragrance of the bouquet of fresh flowers at the nurse’s station. Everything felt surreal while life was suspended in a kind of golden haze.
Time slowed in that room. The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale slats, tracing lines across the hospital walls and my hands. Every sound felt amplified. The rhythmic beep of monitors. The soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Increased interest in Room 2 and the young woman about to give birth.
After more work than I knew was humanly possible, I finally heard that first raw, wild, and sacred screamy cry, ripping through the quiet like a thunderous gospel hymn. The sound of life itself announced his arrival. He was here. My son. My love. My little.
When they placed him in my arms, I felt the weight, not just his tiny body, swaddled tightly, but the magnitude of what had just happened. His skin was impossibly soft, like warm velvet, and he smelled like newness, clean cotton, powder, and something else I can only call innocence. A baby’s scent can’t be bottled or named. It’s the unique smell of beginnings.
His fingers curled in tight fists and his face was scrunched like he was still uncertain about this new world. I remember brushing the downy fuzz of his head, marveling at how something so small could make everything else disappear. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to move. I only wanted to memorize him, imprinting every tiny sound and sensation.
There was a hush around us, even though the world carried on. A nurse said something, gently, but I didn’t really hear. The only voice that mattered was the one in my heart whispering, “He’s finally here. He’s everything”.
Hours later, when the room had quieted, we cuddled, he and I. Outside, life moved forward. Cars passed, people talked, but for me, the world shifted. That very day, I became a mom.
July 14, 1979, will forever be a sacred bookmark in the story of my life. Even decades later, if I close my eyes, I can feel the soft weight of him in my arms. I can hear that first cry, smell that indescribable baby scent, and feel the warmth of the sun dipping through the blinds.
Some memories don’t fade—they grow brighter with time.
Thank you, Jason, for becoming the man I dreamed you would 46 years ago as you grew next to my heart. I hope your day is beautiful.
Remember…. I love you forever, my baby you’ll be.
Happy Birthday! Love, Mom
