(Preface: today is also Pearl Harbor Day. Hug a Vet.)
December 7th is a big day in my world. December 7th was the day that two very important men came into my life.
December 7th, 2004: I was running late, but it was entirely intentional. Gotta keep ‘em waiting and all. It was a very rainy night, nice and calming for our first “dark night” in the Christmas show. (Dark nights are when you have no shows or rehearsals; typically they fall inbetween scheduled shows.)
We agreed to meet at a Waffle House that wasn’t close to either of us, and I really don’t remember why. I DO remember, however, wearing a gray mohair hoodie over a maroon tshirt. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which typically would have had me in fits for a date, but .. we weren’t really dating. Were we? No, we were just two people meeting for coffee.
I got there around ten minutes after we had agreed to meet. He pushed over his untouched coffee so that I could have some immediately, but in my usual fashion, I snarked and thanked him for the cold coffee.
The next two hours passed quickly, us laughing and talking and at one point, he held my hand and I thought I was going to melt right then and there. I knew very little about him, mainly that he was a recently single dad, and we learned more about eachother that night. Our evening ended suddenly, without any contact or goodnight kiss or even a hug, and I threw down a $20 on the table before I left. I knew that covered more than just the coffee, but I also wanted some major karma after realizing that I wanted this man.
It was love at first sight, and it hasn’t faded a bit.
December 7th, 2007: Our third trip into Labor & Delivery, but this time we had the blessing and cooperation of our doctor. And pitocin. The drip started at 5, water broken at 9, and then .. nothing. NOTHING. Family from both sides was camped out in the delivery room, everyone hoping that the child was coming soon. James Taylor, Dan Folgerberg, and Norah Jones played. Julie, the angel parading as an L&D nurse, was by our sides.
At 4 p.m., we began pushng. I was asked if I wanted a mirror to watch the birth. I politely declined. Two minutes later, I asked that they move the tv, because when it was off, IT FUNCTIONED AS A MIRROR AND OH JESUS WITH THE NU-NU. I? Sucked at pushing. Horribly. Julie massaged and did what she could do in preparation for the actual delivery; I pushed fruitlessly.
The doctor cycled in and out, ignoring my pleas for a suction cup or forceps or surgery. I was so, so tired.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour.
.. then an other thirty. Then I had been pushing for two and a half hours.
Dan Folgerberg came on .. the song that Bryan and I had always identified as “our song”, Another Auld Lang Syne .. and I pushed through the song. God, I was tired. I was delirious with exhaustion. I was begging the doctor, Angel Julie, the Janitor, ANYONE to PLEASE GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME ALREADY. I had nothing left. I kept pushing.
The sax solo at the end of the song came on, and out he came. The most precious, perfect little boy. A head full of dark black hair, a football-shaped head, and no noise. He and I spent the next two days watching A Celtic Women Christmas on repeat. It was love at first sight. And it hasn’t faded a bit.