Planning Wyatt’s birthday party has brought back so many memories of the day he was born.
I went into labor on April 27 as I was leaving home to cover a Cordova City Council meeting.
The drive to the hospital seemed to take hours, probably because we were doing 45 mph on the interstate. Zac kept looking at me, squeezing my hand, telling me that he loved me.
His nerves got the best of him once we got into the delivery room. I was not nearly as concerned about his queasiness as the nurses were.
I almost yelled, “People, focus! Lady in labor here!”
I didn’t though because a few people had already recognized me by then, and I didn’t want anyone to say, “Wow, she’s a lot meaner than she seems in her columns.”
Plus, they were in charge of the drugs.
After being strapped down with heart monitors, I faced the WBMC Inquisition. Half a dozen people asked me the same questions every five minutes during that first hour.
My favorite was “You’re not having suicidal thoughts, are you?”
I assured them that I was OK with everybody in the room at that time but could not predict how I would feel later.
Then all of the nurses left, and Zac and I had nothing to do but wait for a while. The proud papa spent his time texting every family member and friend we have while I focused on breathing.
I’ll skip the gruesome details of the delivery and fast forward to 3:41 a.m. on April 28 when Noah Wyatt Cohron arrived.
At that moment, my world didn’t change so much as start rotating in the opposite direction on a different axis.
In one of our first pictures together, Wyatt and I are looking into each other’s eyes and seem to be searching for the answer to the same question — “Do I belong to you?”
We were a perfect pair. He didn’t know where he was, and I didn’t know what I was doing.
We have both learned a lot in the past year.
I, for example, now know that children don’t wait until they turn 13 to develop a mind of their own.
I said when the baby was born that the first grandparent who bought him an Elmo toy would lose visitation rights.
I didn’t ban him from “Sesame Street,” however. I’m a big fan of Big Bird’s.
After I returned to work, my mother started turning on “Sesame Street” every morning while she fed Wyatt his breakfast. It wasn’t long before he only had eyes for Elmo.
He laughs out loud every time Elmo comes on the screen. If Wyatt is tearing our living room apart, he freezes as soon as he hears the “Elmo’s World” song.
I am now in the process of organizing Elmopalooza, also known as Wyatt’s first birthday party. He and I are even going to be wearing matching Elmo shirts.
The things we do for our children.
Wyatt’s independent streak is also evident in his love of music.
I thought my son might be a little slugger. I was hoping for a nerd. Instead, I am the mother of baby Bieber.
Wyatt enjoys banging on the top of an old popcorn tin where we keep our spare change, and he has a little piano that is just his size.
After a few seconds of “playing,” he always turns around and waits for someone to clap for him. Once he gets the praise he seeks, he treats the crowd to an encore.
We’ve caught him humming along with the choir at church.
His dancing is hilarious. Whenever and wherever music starts, my baby boogies.
I wouldn’t have expected Wyatt to be musically inclined since Zac and I aren’t talented in that particular area.
I’m not disappointed, though. My son was born with the gifts he needs to fulfill his purpose in life. Part of the fun of being a parent is watching him discover them.
Years before I became a mother, I was touched by the beauty of Kahlil Gibran’s poem “On Children.”
The words hold a new meaning for me now as I look forward to celebrating on Thursday with my chunky monkey.
“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”