April 2nd is my husband's birthday. On April 2nd, eleven years ago, I miscarried our second child. It was devastaing. We spent time in the hospital, then we had to call all of the relatives and friends to tell them that no, we weren't having a baby anymore. My husband's birthday ended up being some pizza, and a gift remembered after-the-fact. It won the honor of being the worst birthday of his life.
The very next year, on April 2nd, I gave birth to our second daughter. As far as birthday celebrations go, it wasn't much better. We had takeout Chinese food as we waited for a bed to open up so we could be induced. Apparently every other pregnant woman in the state went into labor naturally, so they couldn't fit me in. Thank the Sweet and Sour pork, because we ended up driving to the hospital not two hours later with contractions 5 minutes apart. After a fairly quick labor, she was born just after 11 pm- just in time to share a birthday with her Dad. This one was ranked as one of the best birthdays of his life- second only to his own birth perhaps.
All gratitude to tiny miracles that replace one memory of a horrible day with another memory of a joyous day. Happy Birthday, you two.