The New Guy

When I tell Solomon the story of his birth, it will go something like this:

Your mother, my friend Pie, went into labor on a Friday night while we were attending a couple of great parties in your neighborhood. She told us you were maybe coming that night — it's a good thing you didn't because your dad and I were, um, definitely taking advantage of having your mom as a designated driver.

And then we waited.

Your mom claims to have been super grouchy, but she wasn't. She's just a planner. She did not do well with not being able to make plans more than 24 hours in advance. Because, you know, you were going to be here ANY MINUTE.

Except that three weeks and three days passed. When I didn't talk to her for more than four hours at a stretch, I was sure you were coming. You weren't (at least not imminently). She eventually had to unplug the phone. I resorted to calling your father's cell.

The night before you were born, she said, "I am just so bored with myself. I need for something to happen. I need to be doing the next thing."

Around seven the next morning, your dad called. FINALLY. Three weeks of labor is quite a build-up. At the hospital, your mom was serene and gorgeous (if a little hungry). She brought you into this world with athletic grace.

And here is the reason I even get to tell you the story of your birth: I WAS THERE. I watched you come into this world, with your giant feet and boy parts, 8 pounds and 14 ounces, as blue as a dang Smurf. It was a privilege. You were worth the wait.