The news of your unexpected conception produced cries of “What the hell are we going to do now?”
During Star Trek a year ago, you created contractions. Despite learning you weren’t as far along as we thought, we refused to return home, and your mom and I paced the wooden floors of Emory Hospital all night while testing whether gravity and grit could conveniently force your little ass out on a weekend.
You came home and took up residence in our master bedroom’s closet while we continued trying to sell our house. Morning after morning, I illuminated your little room with the iphone “flashlight” application as I ever-so-slowly and ever-so-quietly reached around your little bassinet (and later, pack-n-play) to pick out a suit from your right, a shirt and tie from your left, and–most challenging–a pair of heavily weighted by cedar “shoe trees” dress shoes from behind your head.
I held my breath as I carefully reached across your tiny sleeping figure in the dark below and prayed I’d avoid crushing your tender skull with the stainless steel shoe horn my father-in-law gave me last Christmas.
Good news, Lola. You’re 1 year old today, and you still have your intact skull.
Even better news: our house is under contract. You might actually get a real bedroom in July.