No, Noah is not twenty-six months old. And this post won’t be about him, sorry. Now that I’ve broken your hearts, maybe I will throw in a picture of him at the end if you behave.
Twenty-six years ago today the world got a little more crazy.
Fashionably (almost) late.
Zanier. (Speaking of Zane…come on down! You are the next contestant on The Birth Is Right (now!)…)
The world got me… and it has survived thus far.
But I think the celebration of birthdays is focused on the wrong person…
In light of recently giving birth, I have been enlightened: I believe the celebrant should be the birthday boy/girl’s mother. Childbirth is not easy, lovely, pain-free, or beautiful. That’s right. I said it. The mother and child are all of these things, not to mention amazing, but a picture of the process itself is not the sort of thing I would frame and hang on my wall. In fact, you will find no pictures of Noah’s L&D framed and hanging in our living room.
Anyway. I am straying from the point. Mama, today I celebrate you and thank you for the hours (I’m sure that seemed like eons) of labor pains. The years of tired pains. The eight or so years of teenage pains. The decades of growing pains. And most of all, continuing to love me when I am a pain. (In your neck, your butt, your head…I’m sure I’ve hit them all.)
Though the world became undoubtedly a brighter place when I entered it, I wouldn’t be here if not for my mother (and dad helped, too).
Here’s to you:
As promised, since you behaved: