Today is my son Arlo's birthday.

[EFerrari]

I can't say how old he is without violating my own 39 year old limit. I named him after this guy who got all the girls and had all the fun:





The night I went into labor with him, my mom took me out to eat Mexican and she freaked out her friend, the restaurant owner, by saying, "This is my daughter. She's in labor -- isn't that great?!"

He gave me the hearty welcome you'd extend to a suicide bomber.

When we got home after dinner, I waited until Arlo's father was home from his gig in Merced (a four hour drive total from where we lived if you knew where all the speed traps were). His lead player answered the phone and asked me very cordially what I needed. "I need Jay to pick me up and take me to the hospital." "Cool, Bethy. I'll go wake him up. " Click. Steve had answered the phone in his sleep like the nicest of men that he was but he was too asleep to pass the call over to the equally zonked out expectant daddy.

The first thing I heard when I got to the maternity ward (because eventually Jay DID show up) was women screaming their guts out and I told him, "If you want to live another day, get me the f@@@ out of here!". But, he was tired enough not to pay very much attention to me and eventually, we got a room.

When Arlo was born moons later, his dad went out to have a celebratory steak with his band and I asked the nurse for a hamburger and a Coke -- these were the 70s and you could still get contraband in hospital.

When the nurse gave him to me to dress for the trip home, I wilted like a coward. He was a good sized baby but, have you ever SEEN a good sized baby? They look like chicken, only not so sturdy. Thank goodness for our moms. Mine took Arlo in her arms and sang to him and Jay's mom came over with handmade baby clothes that she's somehow found time to sew. We were all so lucky, Arlo.

Having you at 19 changed my life forever. And it was the best thing I'd ever done and maybe the best thing I'll ever do. God knows, it got me into organizing hours, days and drawers, a skill I'd thought beyond my reach. If you could manage the Renaissance Faire at three weeks and in costume, I figured I could start keeping regular hours and smiling back at you at every opportunity. It was a deal!

Happy Birthday, my dear, troubly, rackety, guitar playing, keyboard banging, marathon running and sore feet sharing, singing before you spoke English love. I forgive what you did to my belly and I wish I could do it all over again, this very minute. Mexican food, sleepy lead players, screaming women and all.

:toast:

http://sp1.yt-thm-a04.yimg.com/image/25/f10/344257922

Mum

[bicentennial_baby]

1. Awwww...

Good job, Mom. :loveya:

[EFerrari]

3. He was 'way more fun than I ever deserved.

lol

You haven't lived until there's a kid downstairs beating on his Christmas drum set before dawn.

:rofl:

[av8rdave]

2. Hi, Woody! Happy birthday to your son!

[EFerrari]

4. We didn't name him after Guthrie although we could have.

Such terrible, awful geeks. No, he had to dig his way UP to there.

Man, I hope he forgives us by now. :)

[av8rdave]

5. Didn't mean anything by it...the name Arlo just had that instant connection

Anyway, Happy Birthday to him!

[EFerrari]

6. Thank you. No offense at all.

His dad is a folk singer (shhhh!) and apparently he doesn't mind that connection because that's the nick he chose.