(Prepare yourselves. I’m going to post a picture of me after I had him. I look awful. As a person should after pushing out a human being from a tiny hole. I never understand when people have makeup on and look as though they’ve just come from the spa or something after giving birth.)
I didn’t know anything about babies. I never babysat growing up and I was an only child.
I confused the nurse and asked how I was supposed to dress him.
“Will his bones break if I shift his arm into the hole of the sleeper thingy?” I asked.
She was probably thinking, “And THIS is why teenagers should not have babies. For the love of all things sacred..”
When we took him home, I didn’t know what to do. So I set him in his bouncer and hoped for the best.
“Are we supposed to entertain him or something?” I asked Tom as we stared at the sleeping baby.
“I think we let him sleep. Or something,” Tom answered.
He was a good sleeper, thank goodness. Oh, he had his moments. But for the most part he was a good baby who I thought looked exactly like his Daddy.
He was a happy baby.
People would ask if he ever cried.
He did:
But it was rare.
He was a sweet child who became obsessed with various objects.
For awhile, it was rainboots. He wore them everywhere:
Then he had a string named Bing:
He also loved wearing ties:
And thankfully, he tolerated the camera in his face:
Even though he didn’t speak much until he was 3, we knew he was a smart kid.
Heck, he knows more about weather than I do.
I have had the privilege of watching him grow into a young man.
Today he’s ten.
My Tommy.
My boy that I loved from the beginning, who survived being raised by two nineteen-year-olds who didn’t even have family nearby to help them out.
Thank you, son, for not giving up on us and crying frantically on a daily basis. We wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. (Heck, I somehow managed to put your clothes on backwards more than once…)
Happy Birthday, Tommy.
Mom and Dad (now twenty-nine and wiser…at least, we’d like to think so..) love you.
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