My new definition of perfection.

I'll never forget the day Ralphie was born. It was a Sunday. In my memory it was the perfect Sunday. Worship service was fantastic. My perfect family was a joy. The weather was perfect for playing outside.

I labored in my bed, at home, with my favorite music playing in the background. Singing along helped me to cope with the pains. I followed my instinct to rest as much as possible. My windows were open and I could hear the children playing outside.

In an instant that evening, my perfect world was shattered to a million bits.

When my water broke there were signs of "old" meconium. This was an emergency. I found the strength to power Ralphie out. The midwife suctioned him as well as possible and gave him oxygen while James called 911. The midwife said to me at one point, "I think your baby may have Down Syndrome." Whatever. I hurried to get dressed and suddenly there were firefighters and paramedics in my bedroom.

I rode to the hospital in the back of an ambulance holding my new son wrapped in a bath towel in one arm and holding an oxygen mask over his tiny face with the other hand. He was calm and beautiful staring up at me. Could there really be anything wrong with this cute little thing? He looked perfect.

As far as I was concerned, he was perfect.