H B/D 2 U... H B/D 2 U!

Monday will be my niece’s birthday. Preparations are underway. She is now two years old—though she should be, in fact, only one year and eight months.

She was born four months too early.

The doctor said she’d probably not live to see the outside of the hospital. She weighed just under a pound and a half when she was born. Fully formed, she was the length of my hand from the wrist to the tip of the middle finger. She hardly moved. She breathed on her own, though; the doctor said my sister’s high blood pressure accelerated the baby’s lung development.

At the hospital, we had to scrub any visible body parts, wear a suit and mask, sign a document affirming we were not sick nor had we been sick the past two weeks, before they let us into the little room inside neonatal ICU where they kept the lost causes. When she was born, she was alone in that room. Two months later, she was still there and had a couple of little friends to keep her company. Only two of them made it out of the little room.

We were warned she’d be sickly, probably a weakling. The doctors said she’d probably develop slower (physically) than other kids. But she proved them wrong.

She is tall, for her age, and despite her fine features she is the perfect weight for a two year old. She is strong, strong-willed, and hard-headed. She speaks in nearly-whole sentences, always makes sense, is outgoing and friendly, and can exhaust my mother in an hour flat. And she has eyes that can melt a grown man’s heart in no time.

Talk about hybrid vigor! Part Spanish, Lebanese, Filipina, Latina (god knows what combination of sub-groups these last two entail), she chose the best features from each race like a picky shopper at Pavillions.

Her party is tomorrow, Saturday. We’ll have it at home. Two or three people will be cooking whatever weird foods this mini-United Nations assembly will require. Between friends and relatives, we’ll have about ten countries represented (from the former Soviet Block, through the middle east, to western Europe, to Central and South America, and South-East Asia), and of course the United States, with as many languages spoken throughout the party at some point or another.

Sometime during the party, we’ll watch sports on t.v. while the kids play in the jumper outside—probably soccer; we’ll likely play poker while the kids watch The Incredibles, or Shark Tale, or my personal favorite: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The kids will demolish a gaudy little star filled with candy, fill their bellies with all those things their parents spend most of the week keeping from them, and hopefully fall asleep sometime around eight, so the parents can have their party.

Sometime around ten, everybody will go home. It will have been just another birthday party—like there are so many in this family. But, when we put her to bed, I will know it was not just another party. It was a special party, for a special little girl that saved her life and my sister’s by sheer force of will, a little help from a German doctor in San Bernardino, and what I choose to call divine intervention. And though nobody will mention it, I know there will be three people there who will say a little prayer of thanks.

It’s going to be a great day.