I remember watching My Cousin Vinnie, sitting on the floor of that big house we used to rent in the hills. I was huge, a week past my due date. I'd been on the Stair-master that day in an attempt to make him uncomfortable and maybe decide to come out. I hadn't had an ultrasound, hadn't seen the appendage that confirmed his gender, but I knew in my marrow he was a "him."
I was ready to be done being pregnant; I had no idea if I was ready to be a mother. I wasn't someone who grew up imagining I'd have kids. Until a couple of years before (I was 31), I didn't want them. I wasn't sure I felt a connection to this being growing inside me. I was scared.
I was transfixed by Marisa Tomei's sassiness in the witness box when I felt a little "discomfort." It was more annoying than painful and I didn't think anything of it. Then I realized the discomfort had a rhythm.
And we were off.
Twenty-two long hours later and I had this person in my arms. He was beyond perfect. He was born at 6:30 p.m. March 23, 1994. I was exhausted after-wards, labor and delivery had been hard and I hadn't slept in 36 hours.
But I stayed awake that first night just looking at him. Everything had changed. Now there was someone I would die for.
Sixteen years later and I feel the same. He turned out to be just as extraordinary as I knew he was then, and I still have to repress the urge to cut anyone who dares to intimate that he's not. He's got a movie star smile that he uses often. He's smart as a whip and as hapless as only a sixteen year old boy can be. He is lovable and loved by many. I think it's a miracle that he came from me. He's better than me.
I wish for him a life filled with adventure and excitement. Great loves, passionate fights, work that thrills him. I could care less what college he goes to, how much money he makes, or whether or not he gives me grandchildren.
I want him to follow his dreams and to never, ever to feel trapped in a life he doesn't love.
Happy belated 16th, son.
