Once, while Sammy was in treatment, I had to make an appointment with one of my own doctors.
"Date of birth?" the receptionist asked.
Without even thinking, I said, "11-08-05," the dates that I had been reciting multiple times a day since May of 2012. The receptionist was appropriately confused....
It tripped off my tongue, far more than anyone else's, even my own.
We're all conditioned to answer that birthdate question.
Even Solly can tell you when his birthday is (even though he reminded me last night that he hates when it ISN'T his birthday).
And here we are.
11-08...last year, he wasn't quite up for a party. So I offered three separate birthday playdates with his three besties. And I want "three cakes, Mom" -- he specified for me in his daily journal entry:
Sam was born on a Tuesday morning, at about 10am.
I remember the doctor perching on the end of the bed and telling me to push.
I remember wrapping him in a bili-blanket and holding him all night long before his bris.
I remember looking at his sweet little face and believing that all was right with the world.
3,288 days ago.
And he'll always be my 8-year-old Sam.
Last year: Little Things
Two years ago: Birthday Boy and Lucky Number Seven