Today, the birthday of my oldest daughter, I crept into my office in the wee hours, suddenly on a mission to find the journal I was keeping on the day she was born. I picked it right up, the first one I touched in the crammed-full drawer. It was as if this black journal with red trim was aching for me to find it.

The journal did not disappoint. There were the final weeks of pregnancy, a strange netherworld when I wandered through the splendors of a New England autumn with what felt like a basketball between my legs.

There were all the doubts and fears: Would I be able to be a mother and still write? How painful would childbirth be? And always, of course, prayers for the safety and health of the little baby who was quickly outgrowing her first home.

Writing a note to that grownup baby today — a strong, loving, creative, accomplished mother of three — was the perfect — in fact the only — way to start this day.

(Suzanne with her own precious firstborn.)