My baby turned twelve yesterday.

I remember clearly the day he was born.  It was hot that year and my doctor decided to induce me instead of letting me endure more of the heat with P inside me and a young D on my hip.  I was silly enough to think that getting induced would mean that things would go quickly and easily.  Almost eight hours later I was still getting nowhere despite having had thousands of contractions.  It finally came time to decide whether to proceed naturally or go the route of C-section.  I was given the epidural and wonder of wonders, a half hour later and only two mighty pushes and P was born.

He was a good baby.  He ate.  He slept.  He was content.

He was also a beautiful baby.  He had long eyelashes and swooping red hair.  I guess that’s why  the first time the nurses brought him in they had dressed him in a pink toque and put a girl sign on the front of his bassinette.  One quick check in the diaper told them they had made a mistake.  They hurried out, topped him with a blue toque and reentered showing off a decidedly masculine baby.  We still laugh about that whenever P has a birthday.

He’s grown into a good young man.  He still likes to eat.  He still sleeps well.  He’s still content and easygoing.

And he’s still good looking.

Happy Birthday P!