Happy Birthday, Boy

Twenty years ago today I was lying in a hospital bed, wondering why no one bothered to tell me that after giving birth I would feel like someone had slammed a truck into my crotch. Yes, sure, I should have jumped to the logical conclusions: you squeeze out a 9 pound, 4 ounce bowling ball, you’re going to be a little sore. (After twenty years, he’s forgiven for the fact that I couldn’t walk upright for the first 5 days of his life.)

April 2, 1983, at 2:47 in the morning, a doctor placed a wet, wrinkled, squealing little poop machine across my chest, and I was in love. He blinked his eyes open as if completely surprised, and then stared as if he knew who I was. His eyes were big, beautiful, and liquid gray, and I remember looking into them and thinking that he had me in a way no one else ever would, or ever could.

Spouse Thingy and I both stared at him, overwhelmed by this little creature that we’d brought into the world, both in awe of the force of that brand new personality.

I don’t think either of us could imagine that someday he’d turn 20 years old, he’d be on his own, with a life we had no control over. I don’t think either of us realized that we were going to be raising a person; he was just a baby, brand new and still all sticky and pink. We hadn’t quite wrapped our heads around the idea that we were Real Parents, much less that some day he’d be an adult.

Yesterday was the last day he’d ever be a teenager. He lost his last best excuse for the little stupidities of life.

I’m not sure what his plans for the day are, but I hope he celebrates with friends and has a kick ass time.

Happy birthday, kiddo!

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