The Christmas story holds more weight and magic than it did before I had C&D. When they swam and squirmed in my womb, I listened to our advent hymns and thought of Mary’s awe in knowing that she, a girl with no pretentions, would soon bear a child that would change the world.  Even textbooks and routine ultrasounds couldn’t erase my feeling that pregnancy–even without miracles and angels and centuries-old prophecies–is a privilege, a gift.When my own babies were born a month after Christmas, amidst the monitors of a sterile operating room, blinding bright lights and a collection of nurses and doctors as our own Heavenly Host, we knew we entered an event awesome and sacred.  I hesitated to even to name them . . . they were too pure and beautiful to be marred by a label.Now I look at their broad smiles and long eyelashes, their delicious curls and soft apple cheeks, kiss my gifts, and hold them tightly.