She is 9

One of Sylvia's classmates was incredulous when she said she was born in Germany.

"No way," he said. "Prove it."

Prove it? I told her to send him to me.

I'll tell him about making appointments with my OB auf Deutsch. Thank goodness for body language. I'll describe how every appointment - EVERY ONE - involved a non-stress test, an internal exam, an ultra-sound.

I'll share about how your doctor doesn't necessarily deliver: Oh, no, in a big city like Kiel you are either a prenatal doctor or a delivery doctor - maybe in a small town you would do both, but not here. About how you get a midwife for delivery unless there is a problem. And about how if the shift should happen to change while you're in labor, then you get a new midwife right in the middle.

I could tell about how the shower is not in your hospital room, but down the hall. Howver, you do get a bidet, and I think the trade-off is worth it. About how you need to bring your own towel. And your own bar of soap. And you have to purchase a card to use the phone in the room.

And there was the night I sat for what felt like hours trying to decide what to say when I buzzed to send the baby back after nursing - my German was so limited that I didn't even know how to say I was done. ("Wir sind fertig" or "Das Baby hat gegessen" or "Kommen Sie?" or "Das Baby schlaft" or ...) Seems so easy. Now.

I could also share that it was the best of my three childbirth experiences. Very low-key, just Gary, the midwife, and me in the room. I should also mention that the entire birth experience lasted, let's see ... about 45 minutes. We arrived after midnight, and little Sylvia entered the world at 12.55 a.m. Without drugs.

She was a wonder baby. And she grew up into a wonder child. Every day of my life, I am glad we have her.

Though I hope we never have another evening with seven of her little friends up until midnight on a weeknight. I am exhausted.

Happy Birthday, Sylvia!