Footsteps

In honor of Zach’s eighteenth birthday

Originally posted: January 24, 2008

Sixteen years ago tonight, I attempted to slow down the arrival of my first child by breathing into a paper bag. I had no idea if it would really help. I was pretty much at the mercy of the attending nurse by that point in the process. If she had told me to boil my own water, I’d have at least made the effort.

 

 Journey to Sixteen: My Son Zach [2:45m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

With a first baby, it seems that many doctors linger for that one last sip of coffee, check their e-mail, and maybe even discuss dinner plans before actually heading to the hospital for a “labor in progress”. To this day, I don’t know the identity of the masked man who finally delivered Zach when my labor advanced a bit faster than expected. My ex-husband yanked him in from the hallway, stating that I was more than ready to have our baby and that our doctor appeared to be a “no show”. We were pretty sure the guy was on the medical staff, but that detail was secondary by then. The important thing was that this anonymous stranger recovered from his initial bobble of our new son, and that Zach was now a part of our world.

Hard to believe he was once an 8 pound mass of baby… Zach towers over me now, closer to the clouds than I’ll ever be. I’ve learned so much from him as he’s grown to sixteen years; I can’t fully grasp how much this young man will enrich a whole lifetime. He has such a bounty of gifts and talents, but it’s his heart I love the best.

I’m so honored to be his mom.

I’ve felt more than the first twinges as more and more is released into his capable hands. Sixteen is but a couple of breaths from high school graduation. And Zach’s world of possibilities could take him anywhere…

When he was about four, he promised me that he and his wife would live with us forever and that we’d all play nightly hockey games in the basement. “Won’t my wife be surprised?” he asked me. You have no idea, I thought, writing his remarks into my journal with a smile. He’s a musician, composer/writer, and an athlete. He’s his little brother’s hero. He lights even the dimmest corners of his great-grandma Mary’s room when he walks through her doorway to take her hand.

I tried everything to get labor started sixteen years ago, even running (well, awkwardly plodding) four miles through snow the night before. He was late (some things never change), and I wanted to speed up time to where I could hold this little one I already knew so well.

And now… I wish that breathing into a paper bag really would slow it all down a little.

I’ve told him often that he’s the kind of guy I’d want to know even if he weren’t my son.

So true. I also love to walk beside him, knowing that he is…

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