Monday, October 27, 2008
Fifteen years ago, I remember driving down the road in Jackson, Michigan. I can still picture the expanse of concrete parking lot that led to the back of the brick newsbuilding. We stopped there. Looking straight ahead, I told my husband, "I don't think I can do this again."
My belly was swollen with our second baby. The first one, not two years old, sat in the backseat.
"I don't think I can do this again." I swept my hand toward my stomach.
"Okay," he shrugged. "This'll be our last one."
"No, I can't do this one. I can't finish. I can't give birth - again. It's just too hard."
I realize now, 15 years later, that put my husband in a no-win situation. I was weeks from meeting my son -- a bald then blond energetic fire plug who has grown into a stretched out rubber band. Every move he makes around the house could result in broken glass or bloody knees, all arms and legs with size 12 feet and the slightest shadow of a mustache.
Born two weeks before his due date, he was my smallest baby, although the birth didn't seem that much easier. Everyone he met was his friend. Everything he encountered an opportunity to explore.
He taught me that boys and girls can be given the same toys, the same movies and come away with totally different viewpoints. To my daughter, Pocahantas was a love movie. To my son, it was a movie about war.
He has imitated the dance moves of Michael Flatley, played chess against masters, fiddled the violin with ease at many recitals, broken an ankle while playing football before going back into the game, and hunched down in the car in embarrassment when I have been driving.
Sometimes he's my easiest, most loving child. Other's he's the one most likely to make me weep.
For 15 years now, he has made my life better. Happy Birthday, Spence.
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