10 Years

Fine.  9 years, 11 months, and 27 days.  That's how he is.  That's how he's always been.  He wants you to be specific.  He likes to know the rules.  He likes to know how things work and why they work.  He is a thinker.  He is reflective and ponders.  Rarely, if ever, impulsive. 

He was born on his due date.  When I was 5 months pregnant, he did a 180˚ inutero, sat his butt down on my tailbone and didn't move.  He patiently waited for his due date and then thoughtfully saved me the pain of labor.  Instead, I had a spinal block, painkillers, and a c-section followed by a foggy head that never truly cleared up. 

The next day, while Jim went to work, they took him to prick his foot for the newborn screen.  I wondered if I would know him.  I listened as they brought the babies down the hall, wondering if any of them were mine.  Then I heard a low, raspy cry and knew, "THAT'S MY BABY!"  I learned his voice that day. 

I remember the first time he reached up and twirled my hair.  He was no more than 4 months old.  Just old enough to reach it while nursing.  He still twirls hair when he is calm and sitting next to somebody who will oblige. 

I remember his first word: light.  He waited to say words until he could say them precisely.  I remember his first steps, his reaction to his baby brother, his first days of school, his first concert... so many firsts and many more in-betweens that fill my heart 'til it swells so full, I'm not sure how I could love somebody any more.  And then I do.

Happy (almost) 10th Birthday to the boy who made me a mother and taught me that there is no limit to the amount someone can love.