Last night, my daughter was sharing her favorite memories of her family members. Her favorite memory of me was a story about when she was little (around 6) and I was still a student midwife. I wasn’t supposed to be on call that night, but someone went into labor and my preceptor really needed me to come assist. Without childcare, I bundled the girls in the robes and pajamas and out into the night we went. We were driving to a friend’s house when my preceptor called back and said there was no time to drop them off, and to bring them with me to the birth center.

At the center, I put them in the extra birth room, tucked them into the bed and started a story playing for them. “Stay here!” I told them, and then hurried into the room where the mother was laboring.

Shortly after I got there, the baby was born. Everyone in the room was celebrating. I opened the birth room door to get something (or maybe someone, I can’t remember), and right on the other side of the door were my girls, wide-eyed. “The baby’s here!” they cheered.

My daughter says this is one of her favorite memories of me because I looked so happy that a baby was born. I remember it well because of how happy they seemed that a baby was born. It was the first time I got to share what I love with who I love.

Eight years and hundreds of births later, I still feel so happy when a baby is born.