When our children are born, don't we all believe we have created a miracle? Don't we all feel as though we've brought forth into this world the most enchanting thing we've ever seen? Every mother feels there couldn't possibly be a child as perfect or as beautiful as hers. I'm guilty of this thought as well.
My first child, a daughter, was born on January 30, 1992 at 10:50 in the morning, and after forty-seven hours of labor, we were overjoyed with her birth. I was filled with a wondrous pride that brought me the greatest bliss I've ever experienced. She was named Mackenzie Roseanne - Roseanne after my memm'ere. (Memm'ere is French for grandmother.) Her arrival warmed our hearts and melted away the winter cold. Being our firstborn, we thought she was the most delightful, adorable baby in the world. She seemed too only grow more enchanting every day.
To capture her ever-changing exquisiteness, we took her to be photographed quite frequently, for in the quick click of the shutter, a visual image becomes part of history to be recorded and saved for the family scrapbook.
Looking through the photo albums today, I found myself lost in memories. My Favorite picture of her taken thus far was in the summer of 1996 when she was four years old. She is sitting on a small, rectangular table covered with a light gray, fuzzy cloth. The background is light blue--darker blue frames the photograph. Her hair, which was freshly washed and smelled of baby shampoo, is the color of golden honey. It is slightly parted and pushed away form her face to enhance her exquisite loveliness, and cascades to her naked shoulders in ringlets; each magnificent tendril a joy to me, the proud mother. Her glowing, porcelain skin is flawless and...