Happy 18th Birthday to PK!

Sweetie: This is a rather disjointed ramble, but it’s almost 1am as I write this.

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It’s hard to imagine that eighteen years have passed since I held you for the first time.

Eighteen years since you decided you were sick of the delays and livened up an otherwise boring wait in the OR prep by deciding today was going to be your birthday … one way or the other. Regardless of Mom’s health and the “no labor” restrictions my heart imposed.

How can eighteen years have passed so quickly?

It seems like just yesterday that the doc announced “It’s a boy!” Much to my surprise, since I was sure you were going to be a girl. Hah! I suppose I should have known, by the way you took up every millimeter of room between my ribs and my tailbone that there was no delicate ballerina named Carolynne Renae in there.

When you proved not to be a Carolynne, finding a new name wasn’t that difficult at all. (Unlike the adventure we went through with your sister three years later!)

When I was four months pregnant with you, I was very close to death when the family rushed me to the hospital after months of illness. [Just a day later, the diagnosis of Addison's was in.] While in the ER, the doctors were convinced that in my condition, a miscarriage was inevitable. They kept me in the ER for nearly 13 hours, waiting for it.

I was completely unaware of this, being in and out of conciousness. However, at some point, I became aware of a very bright light and the fact that I was floating. I could see a small silver cord tethering what I believe was my soul to my body. When I looked in the direction of the light, I felt the most overwhelming sense of love – trite, but true – just a pure joy and acceptance. I saw a shape of a very large man with a sword standing in the light, who told me “It’s not yet your time. You must return because your sons need you.”

Freaky, no? Whether I dreamed it or not, who knows? I’ve always wondered because I never really thought about it until after we found out you were a boy. If I imagined it, how was I aware you were a boy? Regardless, when it came time to choose a name for you, I remembered the nurse who came in after I woke up again, this time in my body.

She came to check on me and to let me know they were moving me to the ICU, since it appeared I wasn’t going to miscarry. Her exact words were, “That baby must be a heck of a fighter.”

I’d already decided to name you Patrick for Aunt Patty, but I couldn’t find a suitable middle name until I remembered that conversation. So, you’re also named for Michael, God’s Warrior.

Eighteen years.

It seems like just yesterday I met you face-to-face for the first time. The docs had a heck of a time making you cry. They finally settled for the big yawn you gave before falling back to sleep as the nurses bathed and weighed and measured you.

It seemed like forever before they brought you back to me, laughing because you fell asleep when most babies are screaming their lungs out. As the nurse laid you on my chest, you opened your eyes once and made a sort of sigh/coo and went back to sleep.

Classic Patrick.

Your smile is classic Patrick, too. While people have always remarked on your sister’s eyes or your brother’s mechanical skills, it is your smile that people remember. That “big ol’ grin” as your dad and I call it. One-quarter happiness and three-fourths pure mischief.

You were the quietest of all my babies – something your friends (and your teachers) would find hard to believe, I’m sure. You didn’t scream like most babies when it was feeding time, you just kind of cooed in this questioning, “I’m sure you didn’t forget, but just in case, I’d like to mention that I think – no, actually I’m fairly sure, I’m hungry” tone.

Coot was your spokesman. Truly, I thought you’d never learn to talk since he did it for you. He was so excited to find out he had a brother — until he found out you really couldn’t do much. I still remember him picking you up and trying to make you walk – by standing you up and letting go. Which is when he found out three things: 1) Four-month-old babies do not walk. 2) They don’t even stand. And 3) Mom will spank you and send you to your room when the baby whacks his head on the hardwood floor.

Of course, that quiet thing changed around your third birthday when you realized you were terrified of the plastic riding toys you’d gotten for your birthday. That got you screaming! I still remember being busy with your brand-new sister and wondering — too late — what your brother was doing in the backyard with your dad’s hammer.

Isn’t it awful that my first thought was that he’d decided to stop your screaming – permanently? In a way, I was relieved when I got there and discovered he’d broken off every single wheel on your little plastic bus, so that it couldn’t roll. There you were, happy as a clam, big ol’ grin and all, making “vrooom” noises and pretending to ride.

You’ve always done everything with your whole heart and soul, and always with a smile. Whether it was playing outfield in Little League or being the long-snapper on the varsity team now, you’ve always been thrilled just to play. You’ve never expressed any disappointment in not being in a “glory” position.

I remember one of your earliest coaches telling me how special you were. Coach Mullen told me that you were one of the few players he’d ever had who was happy to do whatever the coaches needed, play whatever position, and yet, when someone else made a great play or a good hit, were always the first one cheering.

Of all your many gifts, your sense of humor is amazing. Just the way you tell a story…oh lordie! Stand-up doesn’t know what it’s losing! To this day, I can’t repeat your story about being trapped in an elevator with 11 other football players without breaking into laughter partway through.**

Eighteen years. I blinked and you grew up.

No matter how old you get, you will always be my baby, but I am so proud of the loving, caring, unique man that you are becoming.

Love you forever,
Mom

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Updated @ 2:12pm on 9/15 to add this pic from a few years ago:

 

Yeah, that’s my cutie in the rock-star sunglasses.

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** It’s like this: They had a scrimmage match downstate last year and were staying at a hotel. They decided to walk to the McDonald’s down the street, and when they came back, ignored the “Weight Limit: 1200 lbs” sign and all piled into the elevator together. 12 varsity football players…

The elevator doors close and then the elevator stops dead. PK has one terror and that is being trapped in an elevator. Now, they all start getting hot, as you can imagine, with 12 big guys trapped in a little elevator. So some of them, my son included, start stripping off their shirts and unbuttoning their pants. One kid suggests hitting the emergency button, but PK stops them, saying, “That goes to the fire company! Don’t hit that unless we’re reduced to drinking our own urine!”

A couple of guys decide to try that trick from the movies: opening the roof hatch. Umm, yeah. Because movies are just like real life…

Finally, the hotel manager comes to find out what’s going on, and opens the elevator doors with her key. She is shocked to find 12 big guys squished into this elevator and screams, “How many of you are in there?!” Hearing the answer, mumbled by someone in the back, she wags her finger furiously, yelling, “Six! Six people allowed!”

PK and a friend decide to walk up the stairs to their room rather than risk the elevator trapping them again. When they get to their floor — which happens to be the same floor the coaches and the “bad” kids are on (coach wanting to keep everyone likely to get into trouble where he could see them) who should walk out his door and spot two half-naked football players? Yep.

Coach looks them up and down and says, “What in the heck are you guys up to?”

PK and his friend respond, “Coach, we got trapped in the elevator!”

“So you decided to get naked?!”

“Well, it got really hot and…”

Coach put up his hands, shakes his head and says, “I really don’t want to know.”

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Okay, it’s funnier live.