I find I cannot do this post justice today as there are so many emotions that bubble to the surface, but I still felt I had to commemorate the day:
Twenty-seven years ago today I welcomed my first-born son into the world. Welcomed though is such a calm and happy word and in this context it does not tell the whole story.
Adam was born 11 weeks prematurely. He was obviously in a rush to come into this world, but in his rush, I did not get to hold him for at least a month after he was born. I visited him in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) for those four weeks, and was only able to touch him through the holes of his incubator. And then it was only to brush a finger along his tiny arm, or touch his leg ever so lightly. I decorated his incubator with cards and cut-outs and little stuffed animals. My mom knit him the tiniest of hats and booties to wear with his cut in half diaper (whole diapers were huge for his 2 pound 5 ½ ounce little body).
So many memories—some frightening, some wonderful—but the end result is that today he is a healthy thriving 27 years old. A basketball player, a musician, a reader, a boyfriend to a lovely girl/woman, a man with so much potential—and it is potential he will reach and surpass.
Of course, I am his mother, and I am proud of him. I remember the journey to get here—and though life is not pure bliss—having survived and come through to tell this happy story today is.