My "Baby's" Birthday

Yesterday was my youngest son Jack's 7th birthday. All my kids are my babies, but with Jack being the youngest of the bunch I usually call him the "puppy".

Ricky wasn't impressed because Jack, of course, got all the attention and the presents. He even got to pick what to have for his birthday dinner, a menu that didn't live up to Ricky's expectations. He wanted KFC, and Jack wanted pizza. Jack won. Ricky can pick when it's his birthday.

Ricky is also not impressed because he, too, is 7 years old. Most people think the boys are twins as it is, and for the next month, they are both 7, adding to the confusion. Yes, Ricky was born the 21st of January 1997, and Jack was born the 23rd of December 1997. I call them my "Irish twins". Needless to say, Jack was a bit of a surprise, but a very pleasant one. In a way, he might have saved my life.

Just after Ricky was born, we were notified that his dad had had his visa application to live in the US refused. Ricky came to stay with him here in England while I sorted out custody so I could bring Malorie and Braden with me to live in the UK. In the meantime, I pined for my baby, but I knew I had to take care of myself because of Jack. Everything was sorted out at the beginning of December, and I flew off to England to reunite my family. I started having contractions on a layover in Brussels.

Sure enough, just after 5 am on the 23rd of December, after 9 days of labour, he was born in Sheffield. The doctor in Texas had told me he was due in mid-January. I'm glad he didn't wait that long. He was 7 pounds 15 ounces and 23 inches long. Natural childbirth. Ouch.