Two years ago today, while I sat in a hospital bed prepping to give birth, South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford held a live press conference, announcing he was cheating on his wife. "What? You're kidding me! I don't believe it," I said. Although I don't think the news is comical now, the admission was so bizarre and unexpected, at the time it was. Nurses gathered in my room, agape, staring at the television in disbelief.
"Come on in," I said when they peeked inside the door to catch a glimpse of the action. It was like a hurricane party — a serious situation where people were having way too much fun.
At 9:05 that night, in the midst of one awesome epidural (I say yes to drugs), sweet baby Blake arrived. Sweet, BIG, baby Blake. The next day, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. I was sleep deprived and full of adrenaline, but I still recall how peaceful it felt to experience the beginning of life, when so many sad and unsettling things were happening outside the walls of that labor and delivery room.
And for the past two years, my frat boy has reminded me how wonderful it feels to live. To watch. Observe. Engage. Connect. Blake loves to dance, wear his hat backward, eat Oreo cookies and color on my walls.
When he asks for a siclepop (Popsicle) he melts my heart. And I swoon when he sings, "Baby, baby, baby, ohhh..." and "Shawty's like a melody in my head..."
Today you're two. And Shorty, you're definitely a melody in my head.