American citizens were being held hostage in Iran. Just four days earlier, the US had attempted a mission to rescue these Americans. The plan failed. Most newspapers were still abuzz over this failed attempt. But in Amarillo, Texas, the Tindalls were making their own news. Not headline, world news, but nonetheless, it was important news. The birth of our first child occurred that day.
While all the grandparents partied in the waiting room with donuts and coffee, I hated everyone that had told me natural childbirth was the only way to go. A few times, I might have even hated Marc. And while the nachos I ate Sunday night after church tasted really good going down, I hated them too after labor began.
After seven hours of labor, I immediately forgot about pain and nachos and hating people. All that was replaced by an awe and a love that only a mother can know. Our first child, a son, was born. Ryan Marcus Tindall, a name fit for a prince. Of course, he was the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen. Oh what a joy he was. He was smart and funny. Not everything he did was funny. Nor smart.
He loved his cousins. He loved the rest of the family, too. He embraced life and often wore a huge grin. He was a loyal friend.
That life was cut way too short. Before he saw his 20th birthday. This day is still special, even though it almost always brings tears. Happy birthday, Ryan. I can see your big ol' grin. I will always love you and always remember your special day.
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