Today marks my husband's birthday. The man of my dreams. My King of Hearts. Mr. Romance. He gave me a birthday for the books. On second thought, he's given me many birthday gifts for the books.
In 1982 I outdid him forever. I delivered our firstborn, our daughter, on this day, November 21. If I'd had my druthers I'd've delivered her Nov. 11, as my first OB called it. Chris knew our baby would be born on his birthday, and I scoffed at his prediction. As the day grew nearer I scoffed more. I was ready to have the pregnancy done by the 1st due date, but no, that wasn't the case. Chris was working a turn-around (refinery lingo for scheduled maintenance) in Nov. and right after he left for work at oh-dark-thirty on the 20th, I went into labor; after a few hours of feeling weird I called him and home he came.
Long story short, the home birth didn't work & we went to Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi (where the late Farrah Fawcett and my husband were born) and voila! There she was!
So Chris has given up many birthdays so that we could celebrate hers This year, as in previous years, he's working. My plans for his special day were thwarted. I'd hoped he could fly his hang glider, or ride his age, or get a massage and enjoy a fabulous meal.
Instead, he worked late, we bought our daughter's gift, I gave him his, and we ordered Amici's East Coast Pizza delivered. Drank some local Cabernet Sauvignon, watched a movie we DVRd and called it good. Part of me is very unhappy that I couldn't spoil him rotten. And since he's OK with this, I guess I get to be OK with it, too.
Just wait 'til he's retired...I'll spoil him every day.
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