I wasn’t quite ready for Alex when he was born.  I don’t think he was quite ready for any of us either.  The doctors said there was “insufficient amniotic fluid” on August 30th, which is code for “his swimming pool isn’t full enough”, so we induced.  I spent an interminable night laboring with Pitocin (a drug which I am sure the anti-Christ must have stock in).  Chris bought me magazines (which I didn’t read), and kept the television in the labor room on Law and Order for most of the night.  There was a marathon of it running on TNT.  It seems like just the kind of soothing backdrop you might want when you are in an induced labor with no narcotics to smooth the edges, doesn’t it?   But, finally mid-day, Alex arrived.  He was red and angry….a little political protestor in the making.  “Who was the brain-child that thought chemical induction was the best way to achieve a smooth entry into the world!”, his little red, wrinkled, pissed off face seemed to be yelling.

But then he calmed down.  He locked eyes with mine, and his sweet little turtle smile and piercing brown eyes seemed to say, “Ah well, we can take what they throw at us, huh, mom?”

That was eight years ago.  2920 days and nights of sharing my life with this amazing little boy.  He astounds me with his sensitivity and his chutzpah.  It is the perfect recipe for this kid.

Last night Chris asked him innocently, “So, how old are you gonna be tommorow?”.  And Alex, beaming, said, “I will be eight, at 12:17 p.m.”.

Chris responded, “I don’t think I approve.  This whole getting older thing; I don’t think I care for it.”

I agree, but I don’t think we have a choice.  So I am going to enjoy this e-ticket ride until it comes to a full and complete stop.

much love to all,

tiff