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a note to sam

Dear Sam,
What I’m writing will not mean much to you right now, but just give it a few years. Not too many, but a few. After you’ve learned the joys of reading, but long before you’ve reached the age of proving and pushing away childhood years. Oh, somewhere in between the back-and-forth patterns of caring and not caring. Somewhere along the way, this might grow to mean something to you.
As you’ll soon learn, most people would love to be able to recall the day they were born. Through no fault of their own, however, it ends up being an impossible task. People are helped along, though, from the stories of parents, other relatives and friends. These people help piece together one of the greatest questions you or anyone else may have about life.
You will hear several different versions of the story from several perspectives. Here’s my story about the events that occurred one year ago today, or actually, let’s back up a bit and start with the night before the day you were born.
I was walking down the paved road leading to my house when I was suddenly jolted to awareness by a text message from your mom. It was around 8 p.m. and she told me she was getting ready to go into delivery and that pretty soon, you should be coming right on out. I told her to keep me posted and then contacted your grandparents and uncle and told them to do the same. We were all on baby watch and expected you to arrive at any moment.
Around midnight, sleep was still far away and I was very antsy. I had sent the message that I wanted to be contacted the minute you were born and I became paranoid that my watch group feared they’d wake me. My head hit the pillow around 1 a.m., but I never slept. I checked the phone constantly hoping I’d hear something.
When the sun came up and I still hadn’t heard a word, I panicked. I paced the driveway fearing something horrible had happened. I tried to will the phone to ring and finally it did. The person on the other end of the line was your grandmother. She started out with, “Have you heard anything?” to which I replied, “What? You mean you haven’t heard? I thought you were calling to tell me something.”
In a voice beginning to show fear and concern she admitted, “I haven’t heard a thing. I was hoping you had.”
So we immediately organized a plan. You see, we just weren’t going to wait on you anymore. Your grandma got the directions and packed the car, we stopped by Papa’s hardware store and we jetted off.
Not too far into the next county, your mom called and gave us the news of your birth. As any good mother would do, she spared no details and we were no longer driven by panic and fear. Our sails were now guided by an indescribable longing just to see you.
We alternated driving and arrived at the hospital in record time. I actually think that once we stepped off the elevator, we just floated to your room. Our hearts were pounding and it was almost impossible to breathe as we found the door with your name on it, pushed it open and saw you for the first time.
You were a long little thing. A baby WNBA player to be sure. You were wrapped up like a tiny cocoon and as you were passed around from person to person, you put the same expression of happiness and wonder on each face. Your mom and dad glowed through intense exhaustion. Your grandpa came, held you and you responded as if you already knew him. Your grandma expertly handled you and you knew her instantly. The camera already loved you and you knew it.
Your uncle called and I tried my best to describe every detail about you, but it was nearly impossible.
As I helped your dad bring in some supplied for you and your mom, I asked him what it felt like to be a daddy and he beamed some more.
Then your grandma and I slipped away. We decided we’d had enough magic for one day and we wanted you to get to know your mom and dad better in the first few hours after your birth.
One year later, today, I remember everything. I remember the worry, the wait, the fear and anxiety and ultimately the relief, the joy and the knowledge that I’d been a small part of something miraculous.
You are a miracle and I can’t wait to see the happiness you’ll bring to everyone in the future.
Happy birthday!

A post-it note offering a brief explanation

Oh, dear Lord, my dearest readers, I’m so sorry to have been aforsakin’ you for the past few many weeks, but I come humbly back into your presence at this time offerin’ and beggin’ you to accept my apology and story of explanation.  Fer the past few weeks, I’ve been off on a little adventure to Floridy with my trusted assistants Grizelda Jane and Rendered Posterior in the hopes of gatherin’ up stories on gator wrasslin’ and fresh-squeezed orange juice. In the process, I come across some amazin’ sights, sounds and smells and learnt the secret to whippin’ up a perfect coon, almond and kraut souffle which I may share in the comin’ weeks. But now, I find that my printin’ press is down. Yes, to be more specific, a critter done creeped into the wirin’ of my laptop and fried and fizzled the works of it to pieces. Now, I’m aworkin’ on Grizelda Jane’s computer when I can, but I cain’t that often as it’s a long buggy ride up to the metropolis of Onion City. So I’m askin’ ya to jest hold your horses for a bit. I’m still areadin’ your wonderful pages from the screen of this new-fangled cranberry tellyphone I have, but I jest cain’t comment like I’d like to for the moment. But, hang on because we’ll have this machine back up and runnin’ again before you know it.

Jest wanted to let you know that more possum goodness will be comin’ soon and please don’t give up on me. Not yet. I will share that souffle resippy. I will.