One of my earliest memories:
After sitting and listening to a fairy tale, I am walking in my family's dining room. I must be three, maybe four years old because I am the same height as the heavy, wooden table. As I am walking, I am thinking about the story. Someone (mother? babysitter?) was reading to us (was it one sister? or two? was there a little neighbor too?). The tale was read from a thin but tall, illustrated, hardcover book. The illustrations were rare but detailed - gnarled, ancient forest, small, thatched huts, women dressed with heavy cloaks and long, full skirts. In this story, there was mention of a midwife, the person that helps women during birth. Walking past my dining room table, my little head held high, I heard this thought: "Midwife. That's what I am, a midwife".
Almost fifty years later, that is still what I am, a midwife.
May All Babies Be Born into Loving Hands