Sixteen years ago today I was resting in a hospital bed, waiting to go home. My husband had checked me in two nights before with severe cramps and a smile. I was in labor. At 4:37 AM on a Friday morning, I had given birth to a 5 lb. 8 oz. healthy baby boy. He had his father’s cleft chin and his grandfather’s denim-blue eyes. He was gorgeous and I remember telling my doctor’s partner (who was on call) that Jacob was the most beautiful baby in the nursery. He replied, “Well, I’m sure he is to you,” and flipped his Rolex up to look at the time. I couldn’t wait for him to leave.
Now my tiny baby weighs more than I do and hugs my head to his chest every morning before he leaves for school. Instead of Power Rangers and Legos, he shrugs and says money will be fine for his birthday gift. He’s saving up to buy a car so he can take a girl on a date.
His taste in music has evolved from Raffi and Barney to John Mayer and the Beatles. (And I speak for everyone in the family when I say, Thank goodness!) When he was little he used to ask me endless questions such as if bees make honey then do butterflies make butter? Now he asks me to proofread his English essays, and I shake my head in wonder at his mature thought process and his ability to communicate on paper when in speech most of his sentences start with “dude” and end with “I’m starving.”
God blessed us with three children, each of them different in looks, talents and personalities. Jacob was our first—our proverbial guinea pig—and I have to think he’s turned out pretty well. I hope he forgives me of the mistakes I made along the way, overreacting as new mothers do. When I dressed him too warmly when it was cold and forgot the sunscreen when it was only overcast and he burned anyway. He is my boy and my joy who I unselfishly share with the world and pray that those he loves will love and respect him in return.