Today my son is 7. Seven. Such an eventful entry into the world. Premature. Tiny. I've never been so scared in all my life as I drove those miles to Louisville, chasing an ambulance. Scared I'd lose so much. Scared I wouldn't make it in time. Scared I didn't even know what hospital I was going to. He arrived and was so perfect yet so incredibly small. So strong. Once again they asked for a name. Two kids, two times I picked the first name from our list that came to mind. Then worried if I spelled it right.
After he and mom were safe and resting. I was so wired. I hadn't eaten all day. I left the hospital to find something to eat and try and breathe. Across the street there was of all things, a Hooters. So there I was, eating wings, crying tears of joy/exhaustion/relief and showing Hooters waitresses and other patrons pictures of my newborn son.
It was surreal. All of it was. But it was good. And so is he. My son.
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