This post, part of Five for Ten, was intended for two days ago when the topic was memory. But – and I’m serious here – I forgot to post it. I had it almost ready to go, but then got really wrapped up in a busy weekend of house guests and birthday celebrations.

On Friday, May 14, 2010, my baby turned one. One! Hello, toddlerhood, you sure did sneak up on us. With my first, I eagerly anticipated each new stage. I anxiously awaited every milestone. I’m no less thrilled this time around, but I did pray this year would go really, really slowly. It did not.

I was thinking about the last year and about memory today. More specifically, how I have no memory. I’m terrible. There are huge portions of my life that I don’t remember, and not because they were traumatic. My guess is that they were largely unremarkable, and I don’t have enough brain space to retain unremarkable.

The memories I have, however, are sharp, vivid, lovely (except for the ones that are not at all lovely). Two of the happiest, loveliest memories of all: the births of my boys. Since we’re talking about memory today, and celebrating a birthday, I thought I’d just share a few things that I remember about May 14, 2009.

To begin, I remember what I was wearing that day. I cannot tell you what I wore yesterday. I have no idea. All I remember about yesterday is that I had to change clothes after sweating like a nun at a strip club while wrangling my children, who were trying to leap to their deaths off of a play scape. While yesterday is a blur, I know that on May 14, 2009 I wore my very favorite yellow maternity t-shirt, the one with faint stains at the top of my belly, where the ice cream landed. I also had on the comfiest brown cargo pants ever. Ever. I wish I could still wear them. Except that would mean I was pregnant, so strike that wish.

The day started around midnight, with a croupy three-year-old, coughing and crying for mommy. Fever, cough, fear. After sticking his head in the freezer, hoping the cold air would help his croupy cough, we sat on the sofa until he caught his breath. We cuddled and I stroked his cheek and hair until he relaxed enough to sleep again. It was our second experience with croup, so I wasn’t completely terrified like I was the first time. I was anxious, but felt somewhat in control because I knew what to do this time. I remember that night as clearly as if it happened last night. Or, since we’ve established that I cannot remember yesterday, let’s say I remember it as clearly as if it happened 15 seconds ago.

After a restless night for all of us, I got up early and got dressed, thinking I might have to take my son to the doctor. I called the nurse first thing and she advised that we watch and wait since there’s nothing in particular to do for croup. She recommended a day of rest at home, and that sounded really great to me and my 39-plus-weeks, waddling self. But, as I was wrapping up the conversation with the nurse, I felt something that was less Braxton-Hicks and more ouch. Ten minutes later, give or take, there it was again. After a third round of unpleasant cramping, I called my mom. Well, the boy has croup, and I’m pretty sure I’m in labor, so maybe it would be best if you come over, just in case I need to go have a baby today.

For the next six-and-a-half hours or so, we did what both nurses said – the OB/GYN’s and the pediatrician’s – and we took it easy at home. My son was breathing easy. Me, not so much. But I wasn’t miserable, either, and we played with my mom while my husband frantically tried to wrap up everything he could at work.

We were 99.9% sure it was baby day, and I felt completely and utterly different than I had the first time around. I was excited, and so, so, so ready to meet the baby. And really ready for him to take up residence somewhere other than inside me. But I was also entirely at ease. We watched the clock, timed contractions, all the while playing and laughing like it was any other day. It’s amazing what children do for you. I was able to be present with my son and not wrapped up in what was going on with me. Me, me, me. That’s who it was about the first time. I feel this. I’m afraid of that.

Finally, around 3:00 p.m., we decided to head to the hospital. I’m not much on sharing the details from here on out. But here’s what I will say. By the grace of God, I remained calm and present all day. At 6:15 p.m., when my little guy gave his first cry, bottom lip quivering and face scrunched up in the cutest little bunch I’d ever seen, I was there. Really there. I remember how the room looked, how the light looked, what color scrubs everyone was wearing and what was said. In particular, I remember the doctor suggesting that I might just make small babies (my first was 5 lb. 11 oz. and was two-and-a-half weeks early; this one was 6 lb. 15 oz., and only two days early), and he said we’d have to do a comparison with the third baby. What baby? So funny. Can we please finish the job at hand today and then somewhere around, oh, never, we’ll talk about a third baby? The doctor and nurses (Lou Ann, world’s greatest labor and delivery nurse – I wanted to marry her), just laughed and said, You’ll be back. Honestly, I loved my doctor and the nurses, and even that hospital, so much that it’s almost worth having another baby. Almost.

I have such sweet, clear memories of that day leading up to delivery and also of all the firsts – first cuddles, first feedings, first diaper changes. There are a lot of people to thank for their role in helping make that day so relaxing and easy. The one I feel deserves the most thanks, though, is my firstborn. If not for his little body and spirit, teaching me what it looks like to be completely, utterly, and entirely present in the now, I might have been so wrapped up in me that I could have missed out on a perfect day.