Today’s my birthday, number 33! I woke up to a fantastic breakfast of *A*’s new specialty coconut-crusted stuffed french toast. She’s working on my old-fashioned birthday cake as we speak. I’m so lucky to have such a great partner. It’s the icing on the cake (pun completely intended) to have a fantastic baker and cook as well.
Speaking of *A*, we haven’t had as much time to spend with each other as we’d like this summer. We see each other every day, of course, but that’s different from extended periods of time together, really. We’re going to dinner tonight at a little pub in Winston-Salem that we found last year, and (lucky me for being born near Labor Day) the latter part of this weekend, we’re taking a mini-trip to Asheville, where we will *hopefully* finally get to try the apparently legendary 12 Bones, which is only open for lunch, has exceedingly long lines, and for some reason, we’ve just never made it there. Looking forward to that, obviously, but the time together more than anything.
But this evening, regardless of location, I will carry on the tradition that my mom and I began, well, 33 years ago. I was born at 6:18 p.m., Central time, and every year at that time, my mom and I are either on the phone or in person, and she remembers the details of that August 27th back in 1981.
I must say, as I’ve gotten older and *A* and I have gone through our own experiences of pregnancy and longing for our Littlest, the story has changed somewhat. When I was young it was a comical “oh, the labor I went through with you!” Some years it was a harrowing tale of the doctor disbelieving the truth that I was, indeed, arriving very soon. As a grown-up, I’ve come to understand much more about how lucky I am to actually be here, and how lucky we all are that mom had a skillful doctor and she made it through the whole ordeal. Both of us, maybe mom more than me, came dangerously close to not making it.
For me, 6:18 on August 27th will always be a time to share with mom, wherever either of us are, whatever we’re doing. It’s a special tradition for both of us.
The two of us on a camping trip a few years ago…Mom don’t kill me for posting your picture 🙂
A few days ago, when I was thinking about this tradition that mom and I share, and why it’s so important to me, I thought about our Littlest, and his or her birth mom. That moment of birth, it’s just the two of them, seeing each other for the first time. That 6:18 moment is theirs and only theirs, and I hope it’s as special to the two of them as it is to me and my mom. For *A*, who will not have given birth, but will become our Littlest’s mom, and to me, who will become our Littlest’s dad, our special moment might happen the next minute, or it might be a little while later. Whenever we share our first moment with our Littlest, we’ll remember it with special significance too, celebrating it each year with the same kind of tradition. So our Littlest will have two times to celebrate with people who love him or her. That’s pretty special.