Ben turns nine tomorrow.
I was applying sunscreen to him this morning, and noticed a tiny scar, one I know well. When Ben was one or two days old, one of his long fingernails grown in the womb scratched his face and removed a slice of skin from one cheek.
We cut the fingernails, and I thought, baby skin is the best skin in the world. It will heal and we will never see a trace of it.
He was born via caesarean after a long, long, long few days of labor. This is when one thanks medical science and all its advancements.
Mother and child were united moments after birth, in the sweet song of a baby's cries as he learns to use his lungs, previously unavailable to him for the purposes of producing sound, and the woman who incubated him singing and soothing and telling him the world he has just entered is all right because she is there. It was just after midnight that he was born, and I remember every detail.
It did heal as a tiny, tiny scar. Whenever I see it, I remember that day when I met Ben nine years ago (shy five hours as I write this).
I was happy to meet him, just as I was Rex, after his far-easier birth (a scheduled C), in which everyone was much less exhausted until after the birth.