My younger son was born in '78 and I can't escape the fact that he's turning thirty. As I'm cleaning house and getting ready to prepare a birthday dinner, I'm remembering him as the beautiful little baby who was the cause of at least three pregnancies in my group of friends.
Wait! I can explain. But I have to tell you this story.
My husband was at the hardware store about a year after this child's birth. One of our acquaintances, an imposing figure of a man, approached and loomed over him. "My wife's pregnant and it's your fault," he said, pointing a menacing finger.
My husband was speechless, his mind racing furiously. He certainly had never . . . . Then the other fellow grinned. "That baby you all had was so damn cute, she decided she just had to have another one." As time went on, two more friends told me the same thing.
He was cute. As was his older brother. And now they're handsome. And I am the luckiest of mothers in that they've both chosen to live on our farm.
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