On the morning of February 27, 1999, I was dead tired. It had been 36 hours since my water broke, and for the last two of those hours I'd been pushing so hard that I had to keep peeking down to make sure that I hadn’t accidentally ejected my ribcage. The baby wasn’t budging. It was sunny side up. Stuck. I was done. When my doctor dejectedly announced that we were going to have to do a c-section, I tried my best to jump up and shout hallelujah! But I was dead tired, so I just nodded. I giggled as he explained the possible perils of surgery. I cared not! Pull the thing out through my nostril if you must, just GET. IT. OUT.
A little while after that, I lay waiting for someone to tell me about this baby I had been so desperate to meet. My husband was the one to tell me: “It’s a boy!” Oh, it was a boy. It was my boy. All 9.8 pounds of him.
He’s a boy for the ages, this boy of mine.
He was my guinnea pig at this parenting gig.
Once he learned to talk, he pretty much never stopped
As long as he was conscious
He knows how to party.
This boy is a thinker, an observer, a passionately enthusiastic participant in the roller coaster of his life.
He is a constant source of amusement, amazement, and bewilderment for me.
He changes so much from year to year, and I don't just mean his hair.
Happy Birthday to my boy. Welcome to double digits, baby!