Seven years ago today, I gave birth to my son. He was born seven weeks early because his heart defect was worsening in utero.

The hospital where he was born was not equipped to handle his heart problems, and our local Children’s Hospital was not equipped to have me deliver him there. So, while I was in recovery following my c-section, a transport team came and took him from me. I spent about 30 seconds looking at him before he was whisked away and taken across town.

In 2002, May 10th fell on a Friday. On Sunday, the hospital where I was recovering allowed me to leave so I could go see my son. It was Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day was the first time I stroked my son’s soft hair, the first time I held his fingers in mine and the first time I ever held him in my arms. I have done those things thousands of times since then, but I will never forget our first Mother’s Day together.

This year, my special day and his birthday fell on he same day. We had breakfast in bed together, we both opened gifts and got cards.

Then, I stroked his hair, I held his hand and I held him in my arms. I did all the things I did with him seven years ago, but now he’s bigger and stronger and he’s shown that heart defect who’s boss. I have watched that sick, small child grow into a great kid.

I am writing this late, after he’s gone to bed. I don’t know if there will ever be a Mother’s Day as special as that first one we shared, but today came pretty darn close.

Happy Birthday, Buddy. Your Mom loves you lots.

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Roughly 14 years ago I went paraplaning with some co-workers, one of whom would become my future husband.

If you have never seen a paraplane, it is a glorified go-cart with an enormous fan on the back. As you drive the go-cart across a field, the fan fills a parachute which acts as your wings. Before you know it, you’re alone, 700 feet in the air with steel strapped to your rear end and nothing connecting you to your friends on the ground but a walkie talkie.

Photo courtesy http://www.sunflightcraft.com/

Because of a technical malfunction, my husband had no radio contact. He flew around, without flight instruction, for almost a half an hour and absolutely loved the experience. I, however, spoke clearly with the people on the ground, and was so terrified that I made only one loop around the farm because I feared I might buy it.

I had always thought I would be more of a daredevil, but the paraplane set me straight. A few years later, I was conveniently pregnant when my husband went white-water rafting and sky-diving without me.

I am fine with that. I own the fact that I don’t take chances.

About a month ago, I put word out that we were looking for a puppy. I also, half-heartedly, asked someone to stop me.

Our 11 year old dog has been a great big pain. She is finally at a point where she’s calm and controllable, so why would we think about starting from scratch?

A few folks tried to talk some sense into me, including my best friend who knows me all too well. She knows how busy my life is, and how having a dog throws a wrench into just about everything you do.

But then, a childhood friend sent me a message that simply said, “Go for it — life is short.”

And that? Was all it took.

Life is tough enough thanks to the worrying we do over whether we’re raising our kids the right way, if they’re doing well socially and academically, if they’re going to get hurt playing sports, or get plucked off the street by a stranger. Having kids is a pinch of love and a whole lot of stress. It’s all about taking chances.

Add to that, the fact that my six year old son walks around at risk of a stroke every day, or that he needs open heart surgery, or that his life has been one, big, uphill battle.

Life is short for all of us, but for some people, life can be risky without ever intentionally taking a risk. Some people don’t have to fly a go-cart through the air or jump out of a plane. My son is one of them. His life is risky because he exists. All I needed was a reminder.

That is the reason my fingers have become chew toys and why we are going through paper towels like they’re going out of style. My little boy wants to run and romp and play with a puppy and he deserves the chance to do so.

Life is short and we went for it. And, I am so glad we did.

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My son will be seven in a few weeks, but he looks more like a four year old. The cardiologist says it’s because of his GI problems, and the gastroenterologist says it’s because of his heart. The geneticist threw her hands up and said, “It’s not us!” All we know is that he’s small.

Lately, however, he appears to be going through a growth spurt. In order to boost his confidence I mentioned it last night.

I eyed my boy, then looked at my husband and said, “Doesn’t he look bigger?” Then I turned to my son and said, “You’re huge!”

Taking this as a valid compliment, my son looked up at me and said, “YOU’RE huge!” and in order to one-up my comment, he added, “Actually, you’re HUGE-MONGOUS!”

I tilted my head towards my husband and said, “Uh-oh.” I backpedaled and explained that calling a woman “huge” isn’t really a compliment, but it’s okay when you are talking about a boy’s muscles.

My son looked at his dad and said, “Yeah. Like Daddy’s.”

Somehow this whole thing completely backfired on me.

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My husband and I were recently discussing our latest attempt to obtain life insurance for our six year old son. Our applications for coverage are always futile because of my boy’s underlying heart defects.

My son and my 10 year old daughter were sitting nearby and heard us talking. She asked, “Why won’t the company give him insurance?”

We don’t hide the fact that he is different, so I picked up my son, squeezed him and answered, “Because of his heart.”

Then my son, in his dramatic fashion, replied, “What are they talking about? My heart is beautiful!”

Indeed, it is, son. Indeed, it is.

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