Ten Years of Tess

So 10 years ago this morning, I became a parent.

I have a feeling this will not be the focus of the official celebration of my daughter Tess' 10th birthday. There will be a visit to a shrimp-flipping Japanese steakhouse and a big screamin' sleepover and very fancy cupcakes my wife will craft from the best-selling book “Bleeping Cupcakes that Never Turn Out Like the Bleeping Photo.”

I seriously doubt there will be any point in the festivities when Tess will turn her frosting-smeared face away from a chaotic pile of swag and torn wrapping paper and say, “You know, this is really your milestone, too, Mom and Dad. Thank you. Now, everyone raise a glass of Kool-Aid to my parents. I'm the luckiest kid in the world. Cheers.”

But I saw what happened at 8:06 a.m. a decade ago when Tess arrived, delivered by a young doctor wearing a salad-bar-esque plastic visor over his face. Pity he didn't bring two, let me tell you. He did a fine job, until he handed my kid a tiny Cyclone hat. That's what you get for being born in Ames.

My wife did the real work, of course, through roughly 24 hours of labor. I stood around mostly trying to remember birthing class. An older nurse who yearned for the days when men sat in a waiting room chain-smoking Luckies kept telling me to go away. But who will count her breathing?

It was a cold, snowy day that turned bright and sunny. And, because I'm a guy, I also remember that Iowa lost to Northwestern in hoops, and that it was the day of the infamous “tuck rule” NFL playoff game. You just never forget the really important stuff.

Then we found out Tess had a heart murmur, that turned out to be a VSD, or a hole between her ventricles. Good-sized one, apparently. Within a week we were in a pediatric cardiologist's office, talking about strong drugs and the possibility of surgery. One drug she needed was bright lime green, and the helpful pharmacist made sure that I knew it's intended to prevent “heart failure.” What he failed to mention is it would also make her ralph like a fountain at the Bellagio.

The doctor warned us that if her breaths-per-minute dropped too low, that's trouble. So there were two terrified people sitting up for hours in the night, counting the times her little chest went up and down.

But Tess grew up and the hole somehow grew closed, depriving us of the thrill of open heart surgery before kindergarten.

Now she's a 10-year, pug-loving, soccer-playing, science/math-whizing wonder. And just watching her gobble airborne shrimp and imperfect expletive-inducing cupcakes will be more than thanks enough.