Seventeen years ago, I officially became a mom. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider myself a mom from the moment I saw two lines on the pregnancy test, but it becomes official when the baby can be held by other people.

I have always loved this photo. Even though they say babies cannot see anything at first and they do not smile on purpose for weeks, it appears my daughter is doing both things quite well in this photo. And, she has a white-knuckled grip on my finger–which I also love. This photo was taken in the days before digital, so it’s actually a picture of a picture.

Don’t think that it’s a poor quality photo that makes my lips appear discolored. They really ARE that deeply purple/black as I had rolled my lips inside my mouth and clamped on them with my teeth while pushing for forty-five minutes. I did not do that on purpose and I don’t think I realized I was doing it. I suppose it acted as a counterbalance to the pain of and unmedicated childbirth experience. Before someone realized what I was doing and made me stop, I had nearly bitten through my lips–wouldn’t that have been fun? Stitches that my OB wouldn’t have been able to do.

It is unreal to me that my daughter is 17. She has been one of my favorite people since I knew she was coming. I might worry that I was exceedingly biased if it weren’t for all the other people who have met her and tell me that she is just who I think she is–kind, compassionate, witty, friendly, and an all-around wonderful girl.

The idea that next year she will turn 18 and within months of that leave my home makes me pretty weepy, so I’m trying to concentrate on taking each moment as it comes. The hard part is that the moments pass so quickly and I know I will be astounded next year that 18 has already arrived.

I’m so thankful I was trusted to raise her and that in spite of being my first and me not being completely sure what I’m doing, she is turning out pretty great.