Fun fact: this pic of my two boys was actually taken at the Gay Pride Parade, not long before Dave gave himself a black eye, trying to get a pic of the tranny Wonder Woman.

Nine years ago, at about 3:00 this morning– and five days past my due date– I was awakened by my water breaking.  When I woke Dave, he suggested we go back to bed until 8am or so (typical Dave).  So we headed over to the hospital…… and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  My mom called.  My sisters called.  My friend Ann’s mom, Judie, even called (honestly, that was a fun highlight of my afternoon).  Finally at 7:03pm, the intern standing at my feet said, “It’s a big, beautiful boy!”  And I cried–  I had wanted a boy with all my heart.  He was tiny and perfect, with tons and tons of thick, long black hair that stuck straight up– he looked like a Troll doll.  We took him home and could not believe our good fortune.

Two weeks later, Cameron started to cry.

Cammy was very, very colicky.  He would start crying every day around 1 in the afternoon, and cry continuously until midnight or later.  Then he would be exhausted but awake for another few hours.  I honestly don’t remember much about these first few months, except that Dave and I stumbled around in a sleep-deprived daze for most of it.  The only good thing about this time was that Cam was our first baby, so we didn’t really know that this wasn’t normal. 

Just before he turned five months old, Cammy stopped crying (he still didn’t sleep, though, and he wouldn’t sleep until he was about 5.  But that’s another topic). We learned that he’s an all-or-nothing kind of kid: everything, always, was either the greatest thing that ever happened or the worst thing in the universe.  He frightened me badly when he was fourteen months old by having his first febrile seizure– he had a few more before he outgrew them, but none terrified me like that first episode, when I truly believed he was dying in front of my eyes.  He needed stitches in his head when he fell against my mom’s fireplace; he needed stitches in his finger when he sliced it open with a butter knife (true story: those knives you get at a pizza place).  He caught rotavirus and was so ill that I had to take him in more than once for IV fluids.  He gets sick the way he does everything else: all the way.

Once, in church, he was pretending to be the priest… and then he stood up, held out his arms and yelled, “CHURCH IS OVER!!!!!!!”  He gives me the giggles all the time.  I am powerless against his smile, with the huge gap between his front teeth.  Cam is a people person– my dad refers to him as “the mayor of Chicago” for the way he can work a room– and he can make friends with anyone, anywhere, any time.  His hair is still totally thick and coarse, and he likes to wear it in a mohawk in the summertime.  He looks awesome in a mohawk.  He pukes easily and is prone to hay fever.  He is still in love with Mrs. Walsh, his second grade teacher, and talks about her even now.  He’s testing his boundaries with dirty looks and a shitty tone of voice, and he knows that totally gets under my skin.  He thinks UnderArmour tshirts are the height of fashion, and lately he’s been reading my old Calvin and Hobbes comic books in bed at night.  

A few times a week at bedtime, I’ll get under the covers with him and snuggle and talk.  Last night I was listing all the ways that Cam would never be 8 years old again, and I said, “This is the last time in my life that I’ll be the mother of an eight-year-old boy.”  Cammy said, “I’ll pretend to be eight for you, Mom.”   

I loved having a baby boy.  I loved having an eight-year-old boy.  I love having a nine-year-old boy.  Happy birthday, Cammy.  I still cannot believe my good fortune.