When my son was born six years ago today, it wasn't the fact that I didn't know the first thing about baby boys or their "parts" that concerned me. Or that I was so exhausted after 13 hours of labor that I could hardly lift my head off the pillow to acknowledge his arrival. It was that after Steve had cut the cord and the nurses wrapped him in a blanket and placed him on my chest, I realized with alarm that he hadn't made a sound. There was no lusty cry that accompanies the birth of a new baby. Not even a whimper.
Not a peep.
He simply looked at me as if to say, "Well, hello there. It's nice to finally meet you."
I was worried. I asked my doctor what was wrong with him. She looked at me like I'd lost my mind and said, "There's nothing wrong with him. He's perfect. He just doesn't know what all the fuss is about."
Do you know when he finally began to cry?
When the nurses took him from me.
He knew where he wanted to be and that was with me.
And I with him.
And that's how it has been for 6 years now.
I'm hoping for at least another 60.
Very sweet story. I hope he has a wonderful birthday week.
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