Some mornings, as you lie in bed waking up, you aren’t thinking much of this date from years past. And on other, very particular mornings, you wake up and are highly aware of your surroundings. You’re listening to sounds in the house, taking in the light of the room, and comparing them to deep, treasured memories from this date years ago. This date is like no other for me. Six years ago this morning, in the southwest corner of my bedroom, in front of a small green sofa, next to two windows that were yet dark in the predawn light, my tiny boy came into this world. He was born underwater, after hours of great work, and handed to me by my beautiful midwife — “Take your baby. Take your baby,” she said. And I did, and I held him close. It was a sacred moment. The world outside would be marked by an enchanting hoarfrost, and my 9 lb, 2 oz baby boy would be swaddled and warm inside, in my arms. It’s not a cloudy sky outside my window today, and every tree and plant isn’t covered with the all-encompassing ice crystals of the hoarfrost of that morning. No, the sun is glorious this morning, and there is frost sparkling in it, but just on my windows. The predominant sound in the house is that of Legos swishing back and forth. And the hand that is sifting through those building blocks is much bigger today than it was six years ago. All of him has grown. And now he comes into my room, on those long legs of his, and says “I’m six today!” The first sounds he made were in this room, just after five o’clock a.m., those not-so-many years ago. Not words, but heartfelt and for me just the same. I tousle his thick, sunshine hair and smile, and my heart forms words that my mouth speaks. “You’re six today, my baby boy.” A day to celebrate the true gift you are, and another year of your precious life. Happiest of birthdays, Logan Grey.