One dark weather morning in 1982, February 11th, amidst the clouds and gray pitted skies, a child was born to a quiet man and a woman of grace. It was very near three o’clock in the morning, and the ordeal had lasted all of three hours or so. The baby screamed and carried on like the world was ending, and in many ways, has continued to do so through out his life.
Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, I sit in quiet reflection of that moment. I’ve seen the miracle of child birth, I’ve been there, and witnessed a life yearn for its first lung full of air. But I’ve never seen the face of my own child come in to this world, as I’ve never had one, and I can only imagine how it must have felt to meet a person you’ve been getting to know for nine months.
I’m told that as I was being weighed, there was a hanging ornament just about the scale. I have no idea if it’s true, but I’m told I stopped crying and watched it swing above me in fascination.
I’ve been alive for over a quarter of a century now, and I have a lot of people to thank for who I am and how I got here. But most of all, this evening, I’d like to thank my mom for giving birth to me, and my dad for always being there for me.
Two people that, even despite my stupidity as a child, were patient and always adament about teaching me right from wrong, and letting me decide what I believed in and what I did not. I owe not only my life, but my mind, to my parents.Thanks mom and dad.
Here’s a picture of my mom, my dad, and me (at about 20 minutes old).
