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Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.

— Winston Churchill

A Day to Remember

Like you, I can’t believe how quickly time passes, how one day melds into the next and years seep through our fingers—five years to be exact.

When Aaron was born and other, wiser, more experienced parents told me time would begin to warp and take my breath away, I’m not sure I believed them. Hindsight provides a looking glass for souls and gently slaps our faces.

On another Tuesday morning, before the sun had risen, my son was lovingly placed in my arms and my life became excruciatingly sweet. I wish I could share him with you. The sun and moon shine brighter when his infectious giggle bubbles over and becomes a belly laugh. His wry sense of humor and desire for group hugs would melt your heart, and his sharp tongue and quirkiness would insist you join me for a glass of wine and contemplate things you thought you knew.

In our time together, he’s learned all the prerequisite functions and mastered milestones you’d expect from a little boy who turns five today. I expected him to grow and flourish, but I couldn’t have known, couldn’t have expected that I would grow and flourish because of him.

Today’s celebration is all about Aaron, but it’s also about me, my husband, the family we longed for and were finally able to achieve because of a child’s birth. It’s also about our journey with infertility and what Aaron came to represent.

If you’ve been reading here for any length of time, you know that Aaron was born through the miraculous gift of surrogacy. His very existence represents what we can accomplish when we believe in possibilities, and we share a dream.

I know I’ve not penned in detail our surrogacy story and many have asked. It’s easy for me to chronicle the functional parts, but even after five years, I choke when I try to write about the emotional components. Today isn’t any different, but I want to remind myself of something.

My life is more complete, sweeter, more purposeful because a friend reached out when I thought hope had run its course. I try to pass along that act of kindness by striving to be a better friend, a more compassionate daughter, sister, wife and mother. I’m still trying. I’m still growing. I carry in my heart a knowledge that is divine in its comfort: love and friendship transcend all boundaries and when you combine them, anything is possible.

I only have moments left before Aaron will pitter patter across the kitchen and come in search of me, upstairs in my office. He’ll smile when he sees me and then he’ll climb on top of me and lay his head on my shoulder. He still likes to snuggle in the morning and even though his legs drape almost to the floor and he dwarfs my lap, I’m going to wrap my arms around him for an extra moment and remember.

Happy, happy birthday to my sweet little boy.

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