I birthed this boy 22 years ago (today) on a snowy and gray Boston afternoon. I had that "I can do anything" adrenalin high I felt after every baby . . . and it was Christmas. My shopping was done and wrapped and my tree was waiting. I went home the next morning. Bliss. We didn't have much (understatement), but it might have been our best Christmas ever. I still remember what it felt like . . . a new baby and a warm home with a Christmas fridge (thank you, Caity).
He says things to me like, "How were your visits tonight, Mom?" And, "Do you have things in the car I can help bring in?" Sometimes he helps me set up tables for Relief Society things and maybe even helps put tablecloths on them. He likes nice clothes like his mother and asks me questions about things like belts and shoes and what's supposed to match what. He never cuts into a cake without asking, "Is this for us?" And even though his bathroom doesn't pass inspection (the one in my head) and he forgets to wipe his feet sometimes, I love him to death. He is a tender-hearted soul who misses his siblings and isn't afraid to say it. Sweet to me.
I have none of that name remorse you hear people talk about. Naming your baby is a daunting task, don't you think? After all, it's the first thing you really give your child. My entire life I wanted a "Patrick". Loved the name then and love the name now. And even when his friends sometimes call him "Patty", well, I love that just as much.
I made him the thing he loves the most. He's happy.
So today on this gray Las Vegas day I am remembering back to that day and the incredible feeling I had going home with a new baby just days before Christmas. Also, just for the record . . . cutest toddler ever.
Today's agenda (after birthday cake) includes making candy. More about that tomorrow.
Happy birthday, Patrick. "I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be."