November, 1991.

I awoke to the New York City sun streaming through my hospital room window. By all means, it should have been an ordinary morning just like any other. Yet, as my gaze landed on the bassinet next to my bed, I knew my life would never be the same again.

The stage lights, drama, applause, accolades... they were all suddenly eclipsed by you. So tiny, fragile, wriggling in your swaddle by my bed. My baby. My newborn baby.

I carried you for nine months, but all your features were brand new to me. Your innocent eyes, your clammy fingers, your dimples, your toothless smile... I was still learning everything about you.

"Hi baby..." I gingerly turned to face you, trying not to jostle my wounds from childbirth or any tubes and wires connected to me, "it's me..."

You turned towards me, almost as if you recognized my voice. And I don't think I've ever smiled as brightly knowing that you responded to me, that you knew even at just a day old that somehow… I was your Mama.

Being a mother was never something I envisioned for myself. I was always drawn to the hustle and bustle of the city, to the music and the spotlight. But with you? It felt right, like the earth had tilted on its axis just because you were here.

"I'll do anything for you... I'll give you the world... Just you wait..."