This is a very special day for the Yenta: It is six years ago today that I became a Jewish mother.

I’ll spare you the gory details of the 36-hour labor and delivery, though I will say our beloved, now-deceased dog labored with me for most of it, which may be the reason I had the animal strength to go au naturel for the whole shebang.

The result of all that pain was a gorgeous boy baby with old man eyes who has morphed way too quickly into a man-child with an astonishing vocabulary, a penchant for Torah-learning and a fabulous sense of style.

When babies are first born, you’re so afraid that you’re going to break them that you’re just a total mess, but eventually you get the hang of it. Or, you get Child Protective Services called on you for forgetting your lap is not a safe place for your baby while in a moving car, á la Britney Spears. (Not there was any question about it, but she’ll never be a Jewish mother.)

Obviously, I relish motherhood. My life’s changed a lot in six years and sometimes I envy the childless for their freedom to go to the movies whenever they want, for peace and quiet, for boobs that don’t look like balloons three days after the party. But I look at this kid — in some ways already smarter and more mature than both his parents put together — and I understand that raising this mensch is the blessing of my lifetime.

Yeah, he’s only 6, but every day is one closer the day he won’t need me anymore, and you know what? That completely freaks me out. I can only hope that when he finally goes off into a world that I’ll be too generationally-challenged to understand, he’ll come back and go to the movies with me sometime.

Happy Birthday, son.