He was due in early April; he arrived in late March, on the day after the vernal equinox, and thus conjoined forever for me the rebirth of the Earth with his own birth.
From the moment we confirmed his existence, we knew he would be our lastborn child; my husband was turning 40 in the fall, a sure sign we were slipping into the autumn of our lives. We didn't want a baby who'd grow up amid a family tree shedding more leaves than were budding; better, we thought, for us to raise him while we still had some sap left in us.
And so, what a karmic smile it was for this baby to arrive in spring, when all was fresh and rising once more -- refreshing our faith in the miracle of life.
He's been a joy, of course, and as exhilarating and exasperating and exhausting and exciting as any other baby. This weekend, we'll have our friends over in honor of his third birthday. The forecast is a thing of beauty: 70 degrees and clear skies. We'll celebrate him, the renewal of our genes, and we'll celebrate spring, the renewal of our Earth. What could be more natural?