Twenty-one years ago, at precisely 10:33 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time, they pulled 8 pounds, 4 ounces of wailing baby boy out of my belly and laid him on my chest.
I took one look in his then-blue eyes and was lost forever in their beauty and depth.
All I knew -- at that exact moment -- was that he held my heart.
21. How can he be 21?
The 2-year-old who coined the word "ridiclious" and "time a go," still part of family lexicon today.
The 3-year-old who had the first of MANY eye surgeries and followup consults.
The 10-year-old who asked for kitchen utensils instead of a GameBoy for Hanukkah.
The 11-year-old who asked me what I would do if he got a scholarship to Harvard (I told him I would dance in the streets).
The same 11-year-old who, when told that oboe players could write their own ticket for college, told me to get ready to start dancing.
The 16-year-old who finally figured out that grades DO matter and started actually DOING his homework.
The 17-year-old who graduated from high school with an acceptance to culinary school.
The 20-year-old who had a plan to go back to school to finish a degree in nutrition -- and is following through with it.
Today he is 21. Today he planned to party all day and night with his cronies. Today he planned to take his first -- ahem -- LEGAL drink in the state of California.
But he won't.
Because today -- the 21st anniversary of his arrival in this world, in my life, in my heart -- he is running a fever of 101.7.
Who said there isn't a God?