Okay, you're not a baby, but you're my only daughter, so that automatically makes you my baby girl.
Thirty-six years ago tonight you were born, during a huge snowstorm and after only 2.5 hours labor, my first child. This was back when the doctors still sedated the hell out of women (I know, you wish that your kids were born during that mindset) and I couldn't move from the waist down. Push? Huh? How? Using what muscles? I couldn't feel them.
The doctor had also forgotten just how nearsighted I am, and he held you up for me to see you. Then he remembered, so he touched you to my nose. I know that fact thrills you; maybe that's why bleach wipies play such a huge part in your life. Then you were wisked away to the nursery. It was a bit before I actually got to hold you. I'd been waiting so long for that moment.
But I'd heard your cry, and every time they brought the babies down the hall to their mommies, I could tell which one was you. (This was also before rooming in was even allowed, probably not even thought of in our small town.) You were my beautiful baby girl, and I loved you so much.
You're still my beautiful girl, and I still love you so much. Happy birthday, sweetie.