December 10, 2010 by Marj Hatzell
Ten years ago tonight, I was rushed over the hospital from the birth center because that pesky little placenta wanted to come before the baby. That’s bad, you know. They kinda need the placenta until they are born and stuff. Babies, in case you didn’t catch what I was talking about.
Ten years ago right this instant I was heading back to the birth center and they found I was STILL only dilated to the magic number of ONE after thirty-seven hours. And it would be a total of fifty-one hours before this little bugger made his grand entrance into the world. And then he cried non-stop for over twenty minutes. Let’s just say his knack for drama exists until this day.
And this morning, through my tightly clenched teeth (ouchy) I told him he was lucky if he sees 8:11 pm, the official time of his turning a decade. Funny how that works.
This kid has been the light of my life since the moment I knew he was coming. I don’t know what your conceptions were like (drunken quickies on Irish Holidays like mine?) but I’m telling you that the second it happened, I knew. I knew my life was never going to be the same. Never, ever again.
In the first year he astounded us by turning over at 2 weeks, sitting at 3 months, crawling at 4 and cruising at 5. Then he walked at 9. SO IN FOR IT.
In the second year, he ran around 24-7 with a plastic bubble lawn mower. ALL. DAY. LONG. He didn’t speak. At all. Not even a grunt. And when his brother, who was due on his birthday, was born two weeks later, he peeked into the baby warmer and said, “Oh look! A baby! I want a cookie.” Those were his first words.
In the third year he sat on his brother on a daily basis, ate dog food, preferred to be nekkid and potty trained himself in five minutes. And he learned to read a book, cover to cover, and no one taught him. Hyperlexic much?
In his fourth year he went to preschool, started speech and OT and I got daily reports that he had odd social skills. Like kicking a kid for wearing red. He hated red. Now? He loves red. Sigh. And he broke his arm by playing with the automatic sliding door over and over and over. Not like autistic kids do that or anything. Much.
In his fifth year we moved to a new house. He loved it but asked when we were moving to the next house. Every week. Then he started Kindergarten and thought the bus was the next best thing to sliced bread. And he got to eat lunch at school! And go to gym! AND RECESS! IT’S FUN!
In his sixth year he became obsessed with the titanic (our bathroom floor and kitchen ceiling will never be the same). And he knew how many people died and survived and how many horses and sacks of potatoes sank with the ship. If you could venture a guess, guess which one made him saddest? People, horses or potatoes sinking? That’s right. Taters.
In his seventh year he finally got over his fear of public restrooms. Up until then he held it for hours until we got home. Driving across the country to Utah for three days helped. You can’t hold it in for three days. Believe me, he tried. Back then, he called it MeTah or WeTah. Because he has an awesome sense of humor like that.
In his eighth year he decided he was going to play the violin. And teach himself the piano. And, thanks to the school recorder program, the recorder. And be in chess club. And play tennis. And run track. And soccer. And…he couldn’t make up his mind.
In his ninth year he began wearing glasses, he managed to break four pairs of glasses and he has taught himself to dive. And one night he came to me and told me not to worry, that he would take care of Bugaboo when we were gone. And that he’d always take care of him. And I cried, because I knew I was raising him right.
I can’t wait to see what this year brings.
Happy Birthday, to the light of my life.