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!