"If he is born after midnight, he will be born on St. Patrick’s Day,” the nurse smiled, then gently closed the heavy wooden door to my labor and delivery room. I flashed a weak and nervous smile and sighed. He was not supposed to be here yet. We had already been warned that he could have a collapsed lung or spend days in the NICU.
He was not due until mid-April, yet here we were, ready to welcome to the world our first son.
There are many things one has control over in this world, or so we like to entertain. Contractions, however, are not one of them.
So, at 2:43 a.m. on March 17, 2010, we held in our arms a tiny, dark headed little man, if only for a moment. They quickly whisked him from my arms and rushed him down a long corridor for testing. We were without our baby boy for almost 10 hours. The nurses tried to keep the air light in the room, making jokes that we could change his name to Patrick. Steven Augustine was his name—August for short.
Finally, we were able to spend time with him, and he has not stopped amazing us since.
For a child that was expected to have a least minor health issues at birth, this little guy joined our family with a fierceness at which even the doctors were surprised.
His love and zeal for life has been my inspiration on the roughest of days. He sees with his small, blue eyes, the good in almost every situation. (Except for sharing. He is not sold on that concept yet.)
He values serving others and giving them a piece of his heart every time he hands a friend their dropped sippy cup or sloppily assists his mother in making peanut butter sandwiches in the kitchen.
When Mommy is sad, he dries her tears. When Daddy leaves for work, he is the first in line for “blue lights and kisses.”
And when little brother is searching diligently for his pacifier, well, August simply has no idea to where that could have disappeared.
It has been three years since he joined our family, and he has sprinkled more laughter and love in that short amount of time than I could have ever imagined. And even though he stepped past me in the hallway the other day, as I stubbed my toe and said, “Sorry, Mommy. Can’t help you. I mean, I’m no superhero.”
His humor and wit light a fire within me to keep my fingers to the keys. To keep sharing our stories of family legacy.
We are not Irish, and do not believe in luck, but our little shamrock has blessed us beyond measure.
Happy birthday, son.
You will always be a superhero in my book.