We recently celebrated this guy's 10th birthday.
He's come a long way in a decade.
Ten is twice the number of pounds he weighed when he was born.
Ten was the number of days we stayed together in the hospital.
I hated being in that hospital every one of those ten days. In my hormone-addled state I was not one bit appreciative of the medical care we were receiving. Borrowing a phrase from Anthony Bouvier, I thought of it as our 'unfortunate incarceration'. I only wanted our little family to be at home away from the nurse practitioners, the needles, the monitors, that guy, Billy Rueben, the nurses kept talking about, and, especially, those dreadful scales.
I may have taken it more in stride had I known in ten years he'd be big and strong. If I had had a glimpse into the future and known he'd be making macaroni and cheese from scratch, quoting the Bible and poetry, and playing a mean Irish fiddle, my heart would have been put at ease. (I would have tactfully overlooked the part about him tormenting his sister and hiding half-chewed food in his pockets.)
Yep, at ten he's pretty okay--a guy who loves baseball and Oklahoma City Thunder basketball and books.
And maybe because it took him so long to get here, he really loves just being home.