Yesterday was my son's birthday. I miss him. I've been thinking about the day he was born. It was a Sunday, it was a gray, rainy day. I woke up about 7am having contractions. Since he was my 1st baby, I really wasn't sure. I had had a couple of false alarms, but somehow this felt different. Aunt Bobby and I sat at the kitchen table talking, worrying and waiting until the contractions were 5 minutes apart. Finally about noon we headed to the hospital. I don't remember much about the hospital, I do remember lying in the hospital bed and for some reason, I have a memory of being in the hall, lying on my side in bed. They had given me this canister of gas to inhale to help with the pain. I remember being in the delivery room and two men, doctors i assume were discussing football scores or something. One of the men placed a mask with a black edge over my face and I remember saying "it hurts", he said "no, it doesn't". Then nothing.... I woke up and was told I had a son. I was taken back to my room and Aunt Bobby was there telling me how long his fingers were, how he had her hands. When i finally got to see him, he had scratches on his face, his nails were so long. He was wrinkled and stayed balled up, knees to chest, arms close to his body. He did like to stretch, long skinny arms pushed out, back arched and still those little knees pulled up to his chest. I was going to name him Jack Aaron, Jack after my step dad and Aaron after my uncle rick. When I talked to Jack, he asked me not to name the baby Jack, he said not to hang that name on him, so after much thought, I decided to name him Timothy, after the title of a song I liked. He was named Timothy Aaron Pratt. Born at 5:53 on a Sunday afternoon. Tim stayed in the hospital a day longer than me. That was hard, leaving him there, but he came home the next day.
Now thirty three years later, it seems like yesterday, I miss him so damn much....