C I P R I A N I

We just had a son.  A beautiful, bouncing, baby son.  I say we, but let’s be honest, my wife did most of the work.  Hell, she did all the work.  She carried the young man around in her belly for nine months, slept uncomfortably, suffered cramps, heartburn, sore joints – never complaining mind you.   Then, there at the end, her body began contracting – squeezing the young man from her, pushing him forward into the world.  She endured this pain over sixteen to twenty hours, culminating with pushing him through … well, we’re all adults here, you know the rest.

I asked her how she was doing, ran errands, told her she was doing a great job and there at the end, the nurse got me involved by letting me hold her leg.   Pretty much the procreational equivalent of letting me in for a few downs in the final seconds of a game that’s been won since early in the third quarter.

And while I’m enjoying (I’m kinda serious) sleepless nights, crying, diapers, etc. along with my wife.  She’s still doing the heavy lifting.  She’s nursing the tyke.  And as I lack the proper equipment for that particular chore, I’m once again playing the part of Sean Astin at practice before the Purdue game in Rudy.

This preamble is a rather longwinded way of saying that I think my wife is a star.  An All American, Hall of Fame, MVP rockstar.   And like all those stars before her – she thinks she could be doing better, that she’s not good enough, that she could always improve.  But here I am, on the sidelines, cheering her on, in awe of her grace and talent and heart – just happy to be on the same team with her.