Happy Birthday {Now Could You Stop Screaming Already?}

Today's the day: Tom's third birthday.

I remember the night we went to the hospital three years ago for my induction. We opted to induce with Tom because I'd had Huck so quickly (2 hours) after having Becky fairly quickly for a first birth (6 hours) that I'd become convinced that if I waited for Tom to arrive on his own my birth story would involve a frantic 911 call, a highway, and a very messy back seat.

I cried on the way to the hospital; I was downright scared. Terrified even. I'd had such a rough birth with Huck (you want drugs? --- oh, gee, sorry, you're too far along*) that I shook with sobs for the whole drive there. I did manage to keep it together in front of Becky and Huck before I left the house; I'm proud of myself for that much. But once we pulled out of our garage, I lost it.

Here's the irony: Tom's birth was hands down my easiest. It was so easy and pain free (during and after) that it was almost surreal. I think I freaked out half of the moms at Becky's preschool when I showed up four days post birth to pick her up from class. I swung her up and around in a huge hug. They stared; I then spent the next few minutes making lame-o jokes to the shocked moms that I was apparently made of rubber bands.

I was the only one laughing.

Here's the second irony: for as easy as Tom's birth was, he was - and is - my most verbal child. While that's a blessing now that he's old enough to communicate, it means that as a baby, he was a screamer.

He screamed all.day.long.

He screamed all.night.long.

He screamed constantly and not because he was colicky (Becky was) or sick or because the moon was full; he screamed simply because he's wired for words.

At eighteen months, he could talk in four and five word sentences. He's always used the pronoun "I" to describe himself (rather than his own name). When he was two, I used to play the repeat game with him: I'd read the signs on the stores as we drove around town (Starbucks, Quizno's, Blockbuster) and he'd say them back to me with perfect elocution. He talks constantly and exhaustively and I see a great future for him with his ability to communicate.

I see a great life ahead of him, period.

Tom, I love you. I may sit your hindquarters down on the bottom stair for half a dozen timeouts a day; I may warn you that pushing away your lunch and then making an endrun for the snacks in the pantry is grounds for big trouble; I may even toss my hands up to Heaven and ask God, "Are you KIDDING me?" about your apparent hatred for pants and undies**, but it's all done out of love my sweet boy.

Happy birthday little buddy.

And hey, just for today, could you maybe dial your screamer back from 11 a bit?

*True story: I had Huck on Memorial Day (the Monday holiday). When I got to the small hospital where he was born, I was only at a 4 so the SOLE happy meds doc on duty decided he had plenty of time to step out for a bite of dinner. My cervix proved him very, very wrong.

**This child would be happiest if he could spend his days in his birthday suit. I am forever arguing the virtues of pants and tighty whities with him.

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