It was raining the day you were born. Your mother and I ventured out into the dark shortly after 5AM, and drove the dozen miles through the cold gloom of pre-dawn, to reach the hospital. We checked in, and it didn't take long for you to arrive. At 9:05, you emerged with blue complexion, screaming the most ear-piercing scream. It seemed you wanted the world to know you were alive. You calmed down eventually.
It was a Friday, and I had a job to finish that day, but I put it off for you, going out on Saturday instead. It was important that I be there for you and your mother, and the bricks could wait. I had the luxury of flexibility with my job, which so many other people don't. I stayed with you until noontime, and returned later that afternoon, all to keep an eye on you, and be there with you during your first hours.
Your mother was tired and sore after giving birth, for your size was larger than our previous babies. You weighed in at an impressive seven pounds and seven ounces, with a length of twenty-one and a quarter inches. Mom needed a few sutures after pushing you out, but that didn't bother her. She had you in her life now, and that was worth any discomfort.
You never need to feel you were unwanted or unloved.
I often wonder what you'll become as time goes by, what great sights you'll see and what accomplishments you'll achieve. I don't profess to know what's to come, but I know you'll make us proud. There is greatness in you, I feel, though for what purpose I am not certain. Whatever happens, your mother and I will always be there for you, in spirit if not in body, and your older brother and sister should be supportive of you as well.
I thank God that you are with us. Don't forget to do the same, dear Kathryn, and you'll be fine.