Almost Nine

Nine years ago, at this very moment, I was lying in bed trying to wrap my head around the idea that tomorrow I would be holding a tiny baby boy. And that perhaps I would have to somehow get that tiny baby boy out of me. I had gone in earlier in the day for my first non-stress test, given that I was near my due date and "high risk" (love that diabetes.) I laid there for over an hour waiting for the requisite number of kicks, watching not one but two sets of other moms come and go. During the heartbeat check the tech got very, very quiet and then left to get the ultrasound. That's when we found out that not only was he breech, he was also running seriously out of room. So they scheduled us for a version (btw, that was the one single thing I had hoped to avoid. I'm still traumatized by that episode of A Baby Story) and possible c-section.

(I may have also been thinking about the fact that I couldn't eat food. This was the pregnancy of all. the. foods. But more than that, I was facing the fact that in less than 24 hours I would be somebody's mother.)

The next morning we packed up and headed in, deciding on the way there on an arbitrary number that would dictate whether we tried the version or just went straight for the c-section. My surgeon, who I'd never met and who was also pregnant and very little, threw that exact number out as our chances of a successful natural birth. And thus began my legacy of zipper-method babies.

I remember the surgery being so fun. The anesthesiologist told jokes. It was so bright and everyone was so happy. And then! Then I had this amazing, beautiful little boy who was perfect. Well, except that no one told me that babies are hairy so I thought I may have birthed a monkey-boy. I remember, in my drug-assisted bliss, thinking to myself, "Even if he has a tail, he's absolutely perfect and I love him." (He doesn't have a tail, in case you were wondering. I was very relieved.)

This kid is amazing, and he has been since day one. He's funny and smart and so maddingly logical and quick. He picks a "thing" and will stick with it for YEARS. Thomas the Train, the Rodeo, then Power Rangers, and now WWE. He is sensitive and sweet and has this inner dialogue that blows me away whenever I get a glimpse of it. The last two years have been pretty rough for him. I think we're finally on the downhill slope, but throughout it all I have been blown away by his character and his resiliency.

Nine is weird, because he's solidly a tween. I look at him and it is no stretch at all to picture him at 13, 16, even 25 if I squint and the light hits him just right. We have actual conversations about things that are interesting to both of us (when he's not talking about WWE. I've tried, really.) I love that there are times when he's obviously still a kid, but then other times when he busts out a maturity and a sense that is so unexpected.

Tomorrow morning we're getting donuts and then we're celebrating with dinner and a cake on Wednesday, because I have to work and teach tomorrow (sometimes being a working mom really blows.) He asked for tortellini, steamed broccoli, and garlic bread. Done done and done. I'm also making a flourless chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries because I'm fancy. We're doing the day low-key because in August we're going to a live WWE show, where I expect that he will lose his everloving mind. It's going to be awesome!

So with all that said, Happy Birthday Eli! I love you (even if you have a tail)