Today is my birthday.
But, despite all the doctors and their fancy prognostication machines, it doesn’t look like it will be my son’s.
Originally, when MomandBuried and I learned our son’s due date – which is today, by the way – I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of sharing my birthday with my kid. It’s not that I care about my birthday, really – it’s nice to have it recognized, especially by my wife (she’s the best gift-giver of all time) – but I’m not one to make it a big deal. It just seemed a bit weird to suddenly start sharing it with someone more important than me, especially in the midst of an already log-jammed September (football season, my birthday, our anniversary, grandparents’ day, etc.).
Now, not only will my son and I be unable to bond over our birthdays – though we are still likely to share the same astrological sign (two Virgos under the same roof = LOOK OUT, HONEY!) – my wife and I are forced to wait…and wait…and wait for the little blob to grace us with his presence. And who knows when that will be. Right now, it’s even odds that he’ll land on either my anniversary, my brother’s birthday or – hopehope – Dan Marino’s birthday!
Which is only fitting, as he’ll be festooned in Dolphins regalia from day one anyways. Which leads me to the real cause for celebration on this day = NFL season kicks off. Thank God football is finally here to take my mind off of the delayed arrival of the Rest of My Life. One more baby-free weekend of booze, burgers and beating the Bills.
Hopefully by Week 2 I’ll have a newborn baby to spike every time Miami intercepts one of that a-hole Favre’s passes.
That’ll be one bruised-up baby.