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Life does not always go as planned. In fact, I suspect it rarely goes as planned. I don’t think we have much of a choice but to plan, but it’s probably in our best interests to not expect anything to go as predicted.

Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t know, I’ve always done things a bit, uh, backwards. Out of order, not according to plan. Rebellious just because I can be. So, it should not have surprised me when our child arrived in this world 5 weeks early. Three days before Christmas. Exactly what I had planned not to happen.

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It did, though, surprise me. He was a much longed for and planned baby—a feat I wasn’t sure I’d ever accomplish. Prayers from many people, of many faiths accompanied me on the journey. If I was going to accomplish having a baby then I had definite opinions about when I’d like that child born. Looking back, I laugh at my insistence that I could do anything “normally”. It wasn’t in my DNA, it certainly wasn’t in my child’s either. Despite knowing this, we made a conscious choice: no babies in December. Our preference meant we “didn’t” do things to make sure that was the case. I knew going in that I was in for an adventure. I just forgot to factor in premature babies. Otherwise, we would have extended all that not doing by a few months.

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I don’t know. . . Santa and Jesus are hard company to keep. Especially when you’re a kid. Yet, I’ve met my fair share of adults who struggle with having December birthdays. A lifetime of being overlooked has a way of making December babies wary. They are torn, I think, between wanting their day to be special and all the programming we receive that tells us we shouldn’t be “selfish.” Not wanting to put people out, not wanting to make demands in an already hectic season, I watch December babies shrink to the background, while the rest of us fortunate enough to be born in some other month celebrate birthday weeks or birthday months.

Now, 11 years later, I marvel at my hubris. I marvel even more that it still bothers me he was born in December. I wasn’t ready to have a baby 5 weeks early. Not then. Not now, really. My frustration, in light of his miraculous birth seems trivial. It is tempered by my awe. I remain flabbergasted by the feat of motherhood. . . and I suspect most of you feel that way, no matter how your children arrived in this world.

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My child arrived early. A miracle baby. He will turn 11 in a week. As is our tradition, we decorate our tree as a birthday tree first, waiting until after his birthday to decorate for Christmas. It seems a small act to honor life’s unexpected glories, a small tribute to say, “You are special.”

So, for my darling child, who will read this when you are older. . . please know: You are special. My December baby, you were wanted and loved, even if you were planned for January. The very best thing, right next to your father, that has ever happened to me.

And it does not escape me, that your first act of rebellion was committed before you took your first breath.