It's hard to believe that he has been on this earth for eight years.
And although it seems like eight years is a long time, I have to force myself to think really hard to remember what my life was like before he came along.
His entrance into this world was less than graceful - on my part anyway - I had never really felt pain (or the loss of all privacy) until that moment.
The pain I had giving birth to him was beyond. It was just beyond. I seriously thought I might die.
Scarier still ... I seriously thought he might die on the way out. There were more people in that birthing suite awaiting his entrance than me (and my dignity ... lost dignity) would have liked. They were there to "help" him once he came out.
The fact that there were a team of doctors and nurses at the ready to aid him upon his arrival into the world was not something I found comforting in the least.
There was a lot of stress on him during the birthing process and when he "arrived" he didn't scream or cry - like babies usually do - he was silent. And because I couldn't hear him, I freaked.
I was screaming about my baby and demanding to know what was going on and I could see a team of doctors working on him over in the corner but I was also aware that my doctor and some other doctor I had never met before were working hard to fix me ... and my blood loss ... but I didn't care ... I needed to know he was OK.
My doctor kept saying things like "he's fine, they are just checking him out" but I could tell there was a little fear behind his eyes and I just kept yelling for my baby ... I just wanted him in my arms.
And then in an instant, my doctor was smiling and so was the nurse (one of the half-dozen or so that were in the room, the one that was there for me), the respiratory unit was on their way out of the room, and my little baby ... my little boy ... was safe in my arms. Staring back at me. Still not crying. Just staring.
It was the best feeling. (And no, it didn't make me forget about the pain, but it did make all the pain worthwhile, which I suppose is a fair trade.)
He is sill that way sometimes. Quiet and still. Reserved. Pensive.
And sometimes he is wild and silly and entertaining and full of silly jokes and stories.
He spent the better part of his early years rocking out singing and playing air guitar for anyone who was willing to listen.
He loves superheros and jokes about poo and pee and toilets. He doesn't see the importance in washing his hands.
He has a good heart.
He has lived a lifetime of stories in his eight years ... and I know he'll live a lifetime more.
Happy Birthday baby.
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