Yes, it’s true.  Red Robin made me cry.  And I am *not* a crier.  I know a lot of people — particularly women out to disprove our perceived emotional weakness — insist that they aren’t big criers.  I also acknowledge that parenthood brings out the mush in plenty of people.  But on occasion, in the midst of what I’m sure are weepable moments for any parents, a thought occurs to me that exponentially enables the waterworks, and then it’s all over.  And last night, over an ice cream sundae with sprinkles on it, I very nearly lost it.

As a staff of underpaid but good-natured teenagers gathered around our booth and sang their version of a birthday song — and I’m not sure if they do this to be unique or because ASCAP really is that miserly — my son just GLOWED.  His smile was so massive, and he was so taken aback that all these strangers were celebrating his birthday, that it was almost too much to look at him.  And my eyes welled up, because in my head, I interrupt their song and tell them, “No, no — you don’t understand.  We aren’t just another family celebrating a toddler’s birthday.  We’re a family that almost didn’t happen.  We’re parents who might never have had the privilege of doing these rituals.”

And it’s at that moment, when I imagine telling people about the long road we took to becoming a family, that I DON’T look away.  Maybe I blink back the tears so that the general public doesn’t slap a crazy sticker on my forehead, but I don’t look away.  Because for all we went through to get here, and all the love we hung onto for our son and his sibling-to-be, and everything we waited to be able to do, I sure as hell don’t even want to blink, because I wouldn’t want to miss a second of it.

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