When Jack was born I weighed 273 pounds.
In the years before I had gone from working a physically demanding 12 hours a day to an overly lethargic, computer based 4 to 5 hours a day. The price you pay for attempting to pursue your dreams, right? NO. No. Not at all. I lost my way. I got lazy. Bottom line: I stopped living. I had become one of the people that I despise. I had given up. One Sunday night after I had finished watching The Walking Dead and was about to open my 3rd beer my amazingly beautiful (and saintly patient) wife Allison began running back and forth to the bathroom.
“Are you okay?” I asked after her 3rd dash. Her follow up? “I think my water just broke.” This was, mind you, almost a month before her due date.
Instantly sober and coherent I stood and said, “Let’s go to the hospital.” We did. It was 12:15am. Exactly three hours later Jack came crying into this loud, bright world. He was ready, even if we weren’t.
I have not yet looked back. I don’t imagine that I ever will. I like this George. I like this Allison. And, more than he will ever know, I like this Jack.
Since Jack was born I have lost 40 pounds. That is what I have lost. What I have gained cannot be weighed by any measure currently known to man.