Here Comes the Son

Eleven years ago today, I woke up at 2 a.m. for my bi-hourly pee.  Only that time, it didn't stop.  At 6 a.m., Current Husband drove me to the hospital, and we walked through the doors for Baby Number Two.

The birth of the Son was my most unpleasant.  Since my water had broken but contractions hadn't started, they had to put me on Pitocin.  Then I started having such hard contractions that I dilated 8 cm in 45 minutes, and there wasn't enough time to get an epidural.  Again.  Mommy was pissed.  CH was having a great time.  When Oldest Daughter was born, he only had time for a bowl of Lucky Charms in the morning, and then didn't eat again until that night.  It was quite traumatic for him, and he wasn't about to go through another harrowing, hungry birth, so he made sure he brought a nice deli sandwich and watched MSNBC while I was hanging onto sanity by my fingernails just a few feet away.

But I'm not bitter, and that's what's important.

Me?  Tired, haggard...yellow, even.

CH?  Happy, well fed, up on business news.

The Son has been about the cutest damn thing ever since.  I can't stand it.  It's true, all of the tales about Momma's Boys and Daddy's Girls.  Maybe it's because I know I'll always be close to my girls, but The Son is on loan to me until some other girl takes the baton and runs.  Let me just apologize to my future daughter-in-law...I know the chances of us getting along are iffy, because I already refer to you in my mind as 'That Bitch Who Had Best Not Break His Heart'.  Please don't take it personally, it's my uterus talking.

 Anyone touching him must prove DNA connection.

Even today.

He is sort of an anomaly in our family.  He's relentlessly cheerful and motivated and determined.  He has a thirst for knowledge and wants to know everything there is to know.  He's funny and optimistic.  CH and I are unsure where we've gone wrong, but somehow we've managed to not break his spirit.  Oldest Daughter watches him and scowls, and calls him The Suck Up.  Youngest Daughter watches him and schemes, and calls him very sweetly when she wants something and very sourly when she doesn't get it.  

He wants to be a vet and a construction worker and a professional basketball/football/baseball player.  And play the piano or drums or guitar in a band.  And be an engineer.  And a professional dog breeder.  Every night at dinner we ask about everyone's favorite part of the day, and every day, The Son lists everything he did, because EVERYTHING was so AMAZING that day.  It's exhausting, really.  How can I continue to bitch about my varicose veins and the beds not being made and the thank you notes not being written when he stands there smiling at me?  It's like kicking a puppy.  So I don't kick the puppy and I sort of growl under my breath about his inability to support my bad mood.

In this photo, I am forcing him to put Preparation H 

on Santa's Cookies for our Christmas card photo.  

Screwing Santa over?  Still smiling!

I sound like I'm complaining.  I'm not.  I love this kid with everything I have.  I just can't understand how he stays so cheerful despite his cranky, curmudgeonly family.  So on those days when I just want to growl, I need to embrace his light.

Here comes The Son, and I say, It's Alright.  Happy Birthday Little Man!