“Mom? Do you think I should cut bangs into my hair?”

“Yes, honey. I think they’d look cute.”

“But do you think I’ll regret it?”

“For sure. But it will be fun for a little while and then you can rue the day that you did for the next five years.”

“I’m going to ask Dad.”

This went on for several weeks as our only daughter asked her brothers, her cousins, her co-workers, her Snap-Chat friends what she should do. Her silky brown hair hangs to her waist, and though it’s pretty, it’s pretty much the same all the time. She hadn’t had bangs since she was a little girl--which looked darling—and was ready for something to mix it up. She did it, and we were able to move on to the next thing.

You might appreciate some background about the connection here. This little girl followed three big brothers into the world. This was the one pregnancy where we decided not to peek and find out the sex before the baby was born. It was also my first home birth. I know, I know, you now realize that we are some of those people.

Having breast cancer at age 30 changed my life, but not in the ways you might expect. It was all about the wake up call to the fact that mortal life is short and I am here to gain as much experience as possible.

I didn’t want to die not having fully experienced all that I could, and having my baby delivered at home with a skilled midwife, her assistant and a doula coaching Tim and me was something I chose to experience.

I threw myself into improving my health after my diagnosis, so I was in the best physical shape of my life, had cut out all proven cancer causing foods, and had pumped my body full of nutrition for a year and a half. All of it was as much about preventing cancer as it was about prepping for a med-free, natural home birth experience.

All was going according to plan as I labored in the tub at home. Relaxation music playing, candles lighting the room, the kids all asleep downstairs, the midwife quietly checking things and coaching Tim on how to help make me more comfortable. But nothing was progressing.

After hours of stalled labor, she told me she was going to have her husband bring her own baby to her to nurse, as she had come straight to our house from another birth and hadn’t been home yet. I assured her nothing was happening and we’d be fine if she left for an hour.

Famous last words.

Fifteen minutes later my water broke and this baby was coming. Tim hurried and called the midwife, who immediately turned the car around and was on her way.

I had never felt labor pains before because I had always had medication to knock them out. But I had prepared well with classes and reading, plus I had Tim there telling me I could do it.

I had also chosen to place a painting next to me of pioneer women struggling through snow, hills, and starvation to reach their promised land. I told myself that if they could give birth in the snow, with only a wagon for shelter, then with their blood running through my veins, I could certainly do it on a warm and comfortable bed.

I doubted myself however when the waves of contractions became so intense that I cried out “I don’t think I can do it.”

“I’ll bet you’re almost there. This is probably what they call transition.” Tim assured me.

That thought helped identify the finish line and gave me needed determination.

Then he said “Roxanne, Heavenly Father knows you and He knows this baby. He knows we need His help right now.”

That fact gave me peace and helped me relax enough that Tim was able to deliver the baby, wrap it up in a towel, and place it on my chest, excitedly announcing that we had another boy.

We laughed and cried and in my mind I started arranging the bedrooms to fit a second set of bunk beds. All of them filled with beautiful boys.

After a moment he said “You know . . . I better check that again.” He lifted a corner of the towel and exclaimed “No! It’s a GIRL!” We burst into cheers and tears again. (I’m bawling as I type this up.)

We couldn’t believe we had a healthy, petit baby, of the girl variety.

Just then the midwife burst into the room. “Come meet our daughter.” I said.

“Noooooo.” She cried. In hundreds of births, she had never missed one. She was devastated.

But we were elated. The high that comes from the endorphins, finding out you have your long awaited girl, and the sure knowledge that your Heavenly Father is aware of you and your family, was almost more joy than we could handle.

The name I had picked out for our girl years earlier, didn’t fit somehow. But Afton Joy did. Perfectly.

Her dad ran to the store to buy a bouquet of one dozen pink balloons to stake into our front lawn. For weeks after Afton’s birth, instead of asking one of the boys to go get the mail, we’d say “Go see what Afton got today.” Our neighbors and family rejoiced with us and sent baby girl outfits from all over the country. It was an extended celebration.

Fast forward 17.5 years. Afton and I were trudging side by side through the mall enduring that agonizing rite of passage--otherwise known as shopping for a prom dress. Though the stores were filled with ball gown skirts that were stunningly beautiful, there was hardly enough material up top to serve as a handkerchief, much less a bodice.

This led to an opportunity to talk about beauty, her divine gifts, and what my hopes and dreams were for her . . . beyond her senior year of high school. As I told her stories of my own prom, my own disappointments, my own glory days, I heard a new lilt of interest and appreciation in her voice.

Coconino High School Senior Prom 1987. My secret for big hair? Extra Super Hold Aqua Net. You’re welcome.

Perhaps it’s because she frequently admits that she wishes she were an 80’s girl. Or maybe it’s because the big events she’s facing are the ones that stand out in detail from my own life, making them interesting and easy to share.

Maybe it’s because she is mature enough now to care about her family history. Or maybe she feels like she is about to leap from the nest and wants the reassurance that she will fly. Because “If Mom could do it, so can I.”

Whatever it was, I’m just flat-out, unapologetically, eternally grateful to be a woman. What a glorious thing to be able to share with my daughter some of the experiences of mortality, like hair, clothes, births and woes.

Tickled pink,