A few minutes go, I read my post from 13 years ago, the day Joe was born. What I wrote, and the photos, brought back so many memories.
At the hospital with Jude for a scheduled, last week check up and ultrasound.
The telephone call from Roseanne Maikis as she read the ultra sound in another building, suggesting she was a little concerned about what she was seeing. Roseann asking me if I thought Jude could get her game face on and have the C-section that afternoon, a couple of days early. Passing the telephone to Jude so she could talk to Roseann.
Going home and retuning with JP, not quite four, so he could see Jude before surgery. Walking down the hall toward Jude's hospital room, holding hands with JP, as he got more and more nervous. Looking up at me, he said, "Dad, I don't know about this." JP smiling when, at last, he saw Jude in her hospital bed.
The wait. The interminable wait, sitting in a metal, folding chair while Jude was prepped for surgery in the operating room. Walking in, at last, and making eye contact with Jude, and seeing the steely look of concentration on her face. So determined. So strong. So ready. Nothing on earth was going to come between her and the son she had carried for nine long months.
Our miracle baby. The second child we never thought we'd be lucky enough to have. A brother for JP, who had gotten more and more excited as the big day approached. My family.
Finally, Roseann calling to me, as I walked around the curtain to see my second son take his first breath. Crying loudly, as Jude and I cried along with him. God's gift to us and to JP.
Joseph Dylan Newman.
I remember sitting with Joe in the recovery room for what seemed like an eternity, singing to him. Elizabeth Mitchell's "So Glad I'm Here." I changed the words around, as I sang the song over and over, almost like a mantra.
JP is glad you're here.
JP is glad you're here.
JP is glad you're here, here today!
Punk is glad you're here.
Punk is glad you're here.
Punk is glad you're here, here today!
And so forth and so on, I sang Elizabeth Mitchell to Joe and held him in the crook of my arm until it ached. I was worried about Jude because I lost track of time. It seemed like she had been in post-op forever. Finally, they wheeled her in and she smiled wanly, then fell asleep. Exhausted.
Thus began the greatest 13 year stretch of my life. A wife I loved, two boys I adored, and what seemed like all the time in the world together, as we watched them grow up. When I look back on my life, that afternoon - February 20, 2012 - just might be the high point for me. The moment I would love to relive over and over again.
I closed my eyes when we go home that night, and opened them up this morning, and like magic, Joe had turned 13 years old. How?
Time passes.
The days go slow but the years go fast.
Truer words never have been spoken. My boys are 16 (almost 17) and 13, both teenagers. Incredible. Just incredible.
Joe is my happy, kind, music loving teenager. We share an unbinding love of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, sports, and reading. He's kindhearted, fiercely competitive, a bit naive about life (which I wonderful), and a fan of all things Star Wars and Marvel Comics.
Joe and JP are alike in many of the important ways but very different, too, which is as it should be. Joe loves his big brother and looks up to him, always. Listening to the two of them talk, upstairs, before bedtime, fills me heart with joy. Brothers forever.
On your 13th birthday Joe, know I love you. I'm proud of you. You completed our family.
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