Eleven years ago, at 7:15pm, Israel time, in a blank room in Tel Hashomer Hospital, my son Uri was born. He weighed 2.875 kilograms and had a head circumference of 35 centimeters. I remember that.
I also remember the pouring rain outside, the blocked roads which made my ex-husband and I leave the house early, fearing that we would end up having a baby on the road if we don’t leave as soon as we can.
I remember the way Uri’s body felt on my belly when the nurse placed him there for the first time. I remember the way it felt to nurse him behind the curtain in the nursing rooms at the hospital, where I got called in the middle of the night.
Precious, precious memories. Uri’s little dimpled hands. Uri walking after me in the house, saying, “gnocchi, gnocci,” which was his rather amusing way of saying he wants to nurse (“linok” means to nurse in Hebrew). Uri’s hands and knees working in utter coordination as he crawls. Uri concentrating as he plays with his trains. Uri driving six-months-old Eden around in the black car my mother rescued from a garage sale.
He means the world to me, and he is a world in himself. I feel so lucky to have him in my life, to have the chance to love him and nurture him and help him move forward in the world. He is the treasure of my heart.
Happy birthday Uri! May you enjoy health and happiness in all the years to come. And may you always know that I love you. I enjoy watching you grow, from little seedling to flower, and soon, I hope, into a well-rooted, whole-hearted tree.