Seventeen years ago, after the birth of my son Patrick, people (and by "people", I mean meddling women with secret agendas) would say to me, "Oh, the pain of childbirth will fade and you'll be wanting more kids before you know it."
Uh huh. Right.
The memory doesn't fade so much as get replaced by the temper tantrums of a screaming, headstrong toddler, to be followed by interactions with a hormonal, angry teenager. I suppose Bud Light might've induced a bit of memory loss, though: I didn't realize it was Patrick's birthday yesterday because I thought today was March 31st. It's not - it's April 1st. Who's the fool now?
He's in Savannah for the weekend with his dad, getting that black monstah Dodge truck. Surely he'll drive me to the drugstore to pick up some Gingko biloba when he gets back.
P.S. In the wagon above: Patrick and his Uncle David (or 'Trick and 'Vid, as they called each other one year for the sole purpose of being annoying).