Six years ago, this night, in a nesting frenzy that may never again be equaled, I cut, colored, pasted and embellished sixty Christmas cards while waiting for the pains of labor to grow strong enough. At 2AM I finished the last of the cards, bent over at the waist and sweating, yanked Delta out of bed and headed for the hospital. My little Phi-Phi, two weeks late already, was on the way. She made her grand entrance at 9:27 and she didn't make a sound. Having been there before, I waited, panting, for the doctor to put her in my arms, but nobody did. A hush fell over the room. I looked forward to the doctor, wondering, and in one long, dragging, heart breaking moment I saw my tiny blue baby girl, wet and still, engulfed in the blue surgical scrubs the doctor wore. I looked over at Delta, saw a tear in his eye and wondered again why nobody moved. And then the room erupted in ordered chaos. In one continuous motion the doctor found her scissors, cut the cord and whisked my Phi-Phi over to the NIC cart brought in for high-risk babies. My eyes ceased to function. I could hear the swishing crinkle of the gowns the doctors and nurses wore, murmured instructions,sucking sounds and rubber soled shoes on hospital linoleum. I could feel Delta's hand on my forehead and on my cheek, could feel the shivery heat and emptiness that immediately follows childbirth. But I can't remember seeing a single thing. Then from the corner of the room came the tiniest, reediest little lamb-cry, slow at first but gaining confidence. I don't remember the moment my eyes worked again, but it must have been when the doctor brought Phi-Phi to me, barely wrapped in a blanket, eyes squeezed shut and mouth working overtime. Her entrance was quiet, but in true Phi-Phi style. Full of drama, with a couple of twists, and done completely her way. And that's the way it's been ever since. Happy sixth birthday little one.