First son was born on a sunny day. I would say that even if it had been raining, but it wasn’t. He came, unexpectedly, five weeks early, into this beautiful world, eight years ago.
I wish I could remember the circumstances vividly, but the truth is, my crappy doctor opted to give me morphine instead of an epidural, which did nothing to dull the pain, but everything to dull the memory.
Sure, I remember waking up in the middle of the night, confused, scared and excited. I remember, first, my husband, and then, my doctor, doubting that I was in labor. I insisted we go to the hospital, anyway. By the time I got there, there was no more doubt.
I threw up. I remember all that.
I remember telling the nurse I needed something for the pain, I thought something meant an epidural. My doctor, who didn’t find it necessary to even meet me at the hospital, and only showed up for the last five minutes of the process, just enough time, it turns out, to give me an infection, that a few days later would land me in the hospital for five days, decided it meant morphine.
Is that even safe to give to pregnant women?
But none of that did anything to dull the spirit of my sweet, smart, and loving first born son. Please, ignore me and my giant head, and my even more giant roots. In my defense, I just came off a morphine induced bender, and I thought I had five more weeks to get my hair colored (let that be a lesson to you, pregnant ladies, make your appointments early), and I was woken up in the middle of the night. Instead, look at my son. Even a few hours old and he’s got a smile on his face.
He wasn’t a perfect baby (but who is?). He never liked to be put down, he ate a lot, he was a terrible sleeper (probably more about me than him) but, he was pretty darned pleasant. He’s never been the perfect child, either, but I don’t need perfection, or expect it. But, he still is, pretty darned pleasant, and he loves to have a good time.
I never thought I would have an eight year old. Silly, I know, but when you have children, you never imagine them being eight, or nine, or sixteen, or twenty-one. Then, as if by magic, they are, and you’re left scratching your head wondering where all the time went.
How did we get from the picture above, to the picture below? Beats me.
Happy Birthday, my kind, gentle boy. Your intelligence, humor and passion make me proud. Your intensity amuses me. Your musical talent leaves me in awe. You are a wonderful son. I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you.