Five years ago yesterday I went to my dad’s graduation from work party*. I remember standing in the parking lot afterwards, telling my mom how I had a backache, which was weird because I never got backaches. “Huh,” we both said.
That night I couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t weird because I’m a horrible sleeper, so I started watching “The Wedding Singer.” At about 10:00 I was thrown off the couch with a knife-in-the-back stabbing pain all across my lower back. Five minutes later: another stab. Five minutes after that another, and another. I crawled to our bedroom.
“Kevin, can you stay up with me a bit? I think I’m in labor.” He consented. Then he fell promptly back to sleep, leaving me on all fours, rocking back and forth.
A couple hours later I made the call. “It’s time.” I said a tearful goodbye to our cat, Rocky, whose life would never be the same and how could we be so cruel as to bring a baby home when we already had a furry black baby of our own? We were such jerks.
Thirteen hours, four failed epidurals, a little Lamaze breathing, and a lot of screaming later, Kevin and I were looking at each other, saying, “We’re parents!” and cracking up like it was the world’s biggest joke.
And then we fell in love. How could we not?
It’s been five years. A full five years, one hour, and 51 minutes later. 52 minutes.
And we’re still cracking up.
Happy birthday, baby boy.
WHAT’S COOKIN’ 2NITE:
Chuck E. Cheese pizza. Mmmmmmmblech
*Yes, most people call it “retirement,” but my dad is not “most people.”