It is June 11th once more – today is my son’s 29th birthday. The following is a re-post of the day of his (fast) birth… And today, during this time of grieving for his grandfather, it is a joy for me to celebrate the man who my son has become. After putting himself through night school for 2 years, my son received his MBA shortly after my father passed. Not only do I celebrate my father’s life – I also celebrate my son’s huge achievement and my excitement for him and his brilliant future. My son is my family. And what a blessed family I have…
Here’s the post I wrote 4 years ago, HAPPY DAY OF BIRTH, SON:
For many years on his birthday, I’ve called my son at 10:08AM – the time he was born. I get a kick out of being that kind of mom. 25 years ago I was only in labor for 3 hours. (Yes, I said three hours.) When we arrived at the hospital and got on the elevator, the contractions were so intense that I had to awkwardly squat down on my knees for fear I might fall from the pain. Some how I spoke through my agony as the elevator started to move, “Oh my God, this baby is ready to be born”, I gasped to my then husband. The people riding on the elevator with me did not say a word as the doors opened when we arrived on the maternity floor. A couple of people helped me up and off I waddled – on my way to give birth! My son was over due, ready, and starting to be born while I was still in the labor room (I’ll spare you the details) and by the time they finally wheeled me into the delivery room, Tyler was on his way! I noticed my doctor had not even arrived yet. “Where’s my doctor?!!” Needless to say, things were getting a little exciting during my speedy “FedEx” type of delivery and apparently I thought that was as good of a time as any to start screaming my head off. No, not like a woman in labor, but, perhaps like a woman who was witnessing a murder or something. At that exact moment, my doctor literally burst through the doors of the delivery room. He held his cloth face mask over his nose and mouth with his hand as the untied strings hung freely and touched his plaid shirt. As he was holding the face mask in place, I noticed he had on a beautiful, big artistic silver turquoise ring with a matching watch and band. Incredibly masculine. I felt relieved at the sight of my cool and hip doctor and stopped screaming as I got back to business and continued to push. To my dismay, my cool doctor started to scold me for screaming at the top of my lungs – he had heard me from down the hall. “Geeze. Well, where have you been?” I said to him. And then he started to explain how first babies usually don’t arrive so quickly while one of the nurses started tieing his face mask on for him while another helped him with his scrubs while I was pushing and pushing and . . . then . . . . silence . . . “It’s a boy!” More of that silence. (But he is lavender? Are they all like that? Lavender?) More silence followed by my son’s father crying and barely getting the words out, “I knew it was going to be a boy!” He looked at me and said, “Can I hold him first?” I nodded my head, “yes”.
The silence that was getting my attention was that my son was not crying, he didn’t even peep. Not a sound. It made me feel uneasy, I mean, after all, he was lavender too. I did not remember receiving a memo on lavender babies. “Is he ok?”
“Why isn’t he crying? Isn’t he supposed to cry?”
“You know what? I don’t think your son feels like crying. He is just fine. A fine, healthy baby boy.” I’ll never forget my doctor’s words.
Quiet new son Tyler was being held by his grateful sobbing new daddy.
And that is pretty much how my baby boy has been for most of his 25 years, incredibly mellow, cool, calm and collected. Totally together during any kind of confusion, chaos or stress that life can bring. He just has that kind of demeanor, along with an occasional joyous loud laugh that makes anyone want to laugh along with him.
Yep, amazing to think he was born 25 years ago. My son was born in 1985. I got divorced – as well as sober – in 1987. The odds were completely against me to make it on my own, let alone be a good sober mom. No child deserves a drunk parent. A drunk parent can change even the most mellow of kids. There is no reason or excuse to be drunk, especially when there is a solution and a joyful way of life to be found. It is always possible to find a solution, eventually.
My last drink was on August 1st, 1987. My 30th birthday. I was ready.
My blessings are abundant.