Happy Birthday, Ethan.

Today is my second son's birthday. Ethan is turning 23 today. Of course, on someone's birthday, you think about ... well, their birth. What else?

Ethan's was tumultuous. He looked horrible when he emerged from the womb, bruised a hideous shade of purple, squished and blue from oxygen deprivation. (Sorry, Ethan, no nice way to say it.) His body had already been invaded by Group B Strep, a dreaded organism that kills half of its newborn victims, and that would infect his entire body and bloodstream. I've written often about Ethan's miraculous recovery and won't go into all that today.

The interesting thing is that I still don't forget. Everyday I am grateful that he survived. Not only survived the disease, but survived to be gifted, smart, kind, and a whole bunch of other positive adjectives, despite dire predictions to the contrary. I watch his fingers dance around the keys of his bassoon and marvel. I look at him think about everything from religion to dating with the intensity of a Tibetan monk and wonder how his mind has such depth when mine so often skims the surface. I watch him clean up the kitchen, without being asked, and I think, on top of it all, he's thoughtful.

You'd think that after 23 years, I wouldn't think much about his difficult start in life, that by now it would be commonplace. But it's not. Nor are Mozart operas, that first tulip in the spring, or the view from one of Colorado's magnificent mountains. Miracles are all around us, if only we choose to remember them.