For Sam

You’re way too young to know who Peter Brady is, seeing as how there are fresh deli sandwiches that are older than you but all day today I’ve walked around sounding a whole lot like he did on that Brady Bunch episode where they try to sing that corny song about “When it’s time to change you’ve got to rearrANGE.”  My vocal chords have rebelled against all the scrape-age of my coughing and AHEMing the last two days, making my job at the preschool a little more challenging. And even though I can already tell you are not going to be the type of kid who needs to be told “DON’T SIT ON THE BABY,” I’ll go ahead and tell you that it’s a phrase that loses quite a bit of its urgency when wheezed.

Why am I telling you all of this nonsense about my voice?  Well, because my condition is kind of your fault, young man.  For two reasons.  ONE: see, your mom is a good friend of mine.  A really good friend.  And there have been at least two occasions in our friendship where she has stayed up all night because of me or someone related to me (i.e. Noah the Nonsleeper).  And these two situations created a very convenient excuse for me to be available for the all night and day of labor that she went through with you.  Convenient because I could say that “I owed her” when in reality a pack of Iditarod-bound Alaskan huskies could not have kept me away from the hospital while you were trying to make your grand entrance.  So the night of no sleep (after a few nights of very little sleep due to your good friend Rosie whom you haven’t met yet) kind of handicapped my immune system a little.  And so: the hoarseness.

But really, it’s reason TWO that did me in.  Turns out that your voice doesn’t last long when you tell the story of The Birth of Sam to every person you lay eyeballs on. (And by the way, the lady who took my money when I signed Noah up for soccer was TOTALLY JAZZED that you were born.  I think her exact words were: “That’s great honey.  Checks should be made out to Decatur Rec.”)

I’m just really really glad you’ve come, if that’s not apparent.  Your mom is like the Champ of all Champs of Baby Birthing, which is a good thing, since you took about twenty seven hours to come out.  Your dad made the observation that your mom probably experienced twice as many contractions with you as I ever did with my two kids combined, and I would have to concur.  I would also have to add: DADGUM, KID.

But you want to know something funny?  Even though she’d been awake for thirty-six hours and hadn’t eaten for nineteen and had just served as a portal for your eight pound six ounce chunk of a body, when I went in to meet you for the first time, your mom held you with her face beaming and peaceful as if the previous day had never happened.  Love will mess with your brain like that.  “I think he might be perfect,” she said.  And as someone who just happens to be an expert on perfect kids, I think she might be right.

So I guess I’ll forgive you for the whole lost voice thing, seeing as how you’re perfect. Perfect, and also blessed beyond measure for being born to a whole host of people who would gladly have their brains addled with love for you.

You may have been  born during an economic crisis, but the world is undoubtedly richer now that you’re in it.  Welcome.

March 11, 2009   9 Comments