My Birthday Boy

Twelve years ago, I was a carefree 21 year old. I worked at a daycare during the day and as a waitress at a local bar at night. In my free time, I bounded from pool halls to concerts to late night diners. There were hours of time spent surrounded by friends having in-depth discussions about solving world hunger or who really killed Tupac and Biggie. Our beer bottles could be heard clinking until all hours of the morning.

And then one day, I was pregnant. The collage of emotions felt overlapped and overwhelmed me. It wasn't time. I wasn't ready. How would I do this? Everything is going to change.

With each passing month, I grew closer to him. I remember the kicks. I relished the tumbles. It was an easy pregnancy; I had no difficulties or illnesses the entire term. I sometimes wrapped my arms around my growing belly, not just to support the weight, but in an attempt to embrace the child I couldn't wait to hold.

My due date came and went. I was ready. I was exhausted. The weekend came and I spent the day walking as much as I could. And at 10pm, when I felt the first twinge of a contraction, I knew he was on his way. After a few hours of waiting, I tried to get some sleep. And after a few hours sleep, I awoke, knowing it was time to get ready to leave for the hospital.

At 4:20pm, he was finally here. I cried. I swooned. I laughed at the scrunched up faces he made. Mostly, I realized that this wiggly bundle was now my life. And with every day that has passed, he has never ceased to amaze me.

In eleven years, he's crawled, walked and spoke. He's created, destroyed and discovered. He makes me angry and he makes me happier than I've ever known. I'm proud of him in more ways than I can count. And while I fear the unknown teenage years ahead, I know that he'll be amazing. Just as he always has.