You were two weeks late.
You were two weeks late and I laid on the bed and cried because I couldn't wait to see you -- that, and because I was too fat to do much else.
"Do you think it will ever be the same again?" your dad asked me not long before you got here, and I cried even harder because I thought he was talking about my rear end being big. He was talking about our life.
And our life never has been the same -- not since you were born 16 years ago tomorrow.
You made a grand entrance, early on a Tuesday morning, not much after 6 a.m. What is it they say about Tuesday's Child? Tuesday's Child is full of grace. Grace -- dignified, a capacity to tolerate, accommodate or forgive someone. I looked it up. That fits you.
If I find a little pocket of complete quiet and close my eyes real tight, I can almost hear you ... see you ... way back when.
I can still hear you over the baby monitor early in the morning, singing made up gurgle-y songs to yourself as you laid in your crib, waiting for us to come and get you.
See you toddling to the front door at night because you wouldn't go to sleep until we took you outside to see the moon.
See you sitting by the tree house in the backyard, trying to catch a squirrel with peanut M&Ms and a box with a string tied to it.
See you holding your little, baby sister and asking when we were going to take her back to the hospital because she cried too much and you thought we'd kept her about long enough.
See the look on your face when you cut your knee open hiding under your bed after you got sent to your room for yelling during supper.
Hear you trying to convince me that you could build an entire house out of Legos and we could all live in it, if only I would buy you a bazillion Legos.
And I still see you with your sleepy eyes and hair all a mess, wearing your blue footie pajamas, sitting behind the wheel of your Jeff Gordon Power Wheels race car on Christmas morning.
Later this week, you'll be driving a real car all by yourself. I know the first time I see you back out of the driveway, it will feel like a punch in my stomach. I'll probably cry.
But even though you haven't worn blue footie pajamas or hidden under your bed in a long, long time. Even though you are head and shoulders taller than me and your voice is as strong and thick as a grown man's, you're still my baby. My baby boy.
You were two weeks late. When I think about it now, though, I suspect you weren't late at all. You just weren't going to get here until you were good and ready. Which was 16 years ago tomorrow. One of the most blessed days of my life.
Tuesday's Child is full of grace. That fits you.
I love you, Baby Boy.
Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at email@example.com.