On the morning Casey turned 8, he reminded me immediately it was his birthday (of course, I knew). I made him wait until 9 to jump on our bed and wake up Jason.
We talked about the day he was born. We contrasted the weather here-- sunny, blue skies, in the upper-70s-- with the weather when he was born-- a snow storm. He knows all about how we were on vacation in Florida when we learned that he was going to be born, so all Jason had were shorts, which he wore.
We told Casey how amazing it was to hold him and feed him his first bottle. How happy we were to meet him. How important he was-- and still is-- to us.
We told him how much we love him and how lucky we feel to be his parents. (He told us he knows. If you know Casey, this is no surprise at all.)
After our morning conversation, I thought about Casey's Story. I thought about how much love was in that room when he was born. How much anxiety and hope for our future. How I knew I was lucky the moment I held him. And I wondered how Marcie felt, sitting on our bed and hearing Casey's Story. It's not lost on me how much we don't know about Marcie's arrival in the world.
Of course, Marcie has her own story; it just doesn't involve the day she was born. And thinking about that, I felt incredibly sad. Like somehow she's lost something and I can't ever help her get it back. I'm not sure that Marcie feels like she's lost something. And I don't think Marcie will feel less loved as a result. (I certainly hope she won't.)
I don't have any pithy, uplifting words to express how I resolved the issue in my own mind. Not sure I ever will. Or that there needs to be a resolution. For all I know, I'm thinking way more about this than Marcie (or Tate) ever will. I actually kind of hope so.