Spring has fully sprung. Pink and white blossoms have been replaced by little leaves. Yellow is turning a deeper shade of green. Tulips and daffodils are long gone, and even roses have unfurled their lovely petals.
It seems the only late bloomers around these parts live in my house.
According to my mom (and her doctor), I was born a month past my due date. She blamed me for her recurrent back pain, after spending that month in a hospital bed (well, that and the fact I was born “sunny side up”–not an easy labor). Her running joke about me was that I’d been “born a month late and hadn’t shown up on time for anything since.”
Not 100% true. I like to think of myself as a punctual person. In fact, I’m usually so nervous about being on time that I show up a few minutes early to most appointments. Hubby’s the same way. We were both early for our first date–we just happened to be waiting for each other in two different places–but that’s a story for another day.
In areas that are not so cut-and-dried as showing up for a haircut, I have been less than punctual. Take high school, for example. I didn’t get my license until a couple of months before my 18th birthday, almost two years later than I could have and much later than most of my classmates, who turned 16 well before my June birthday and were eager to get behind the wheel. My first real kiss (and by “real” I mean that I was not in elementary school and there was no bottle-spinning involved) happened when I was 17. I never had a boyfriend in high school, but I went to a dance with a boy I’d had a huge crush on since meeting him in junior high in another state, and when I did finally get that first kiss–woah, mama!–it was a doozy.
That’s how most things have happened for me. I take my time, try to make sure I’m doing things the “right” way (whatever that means), and when I finally get there, it’s more than I could have hoped for.
I was 25 when I met Hubby. By this time, I had already been the maid of honor in both my little sister’s and my best friend’s weddings. I had had a couple of boyfriends in college, but no one special during grad school, and when I moved across the country–well, it still took me over a year before I met anyone worth while. But that someone was THE ONE, and that is something special.
Turns out, Hubby was a late bloomer, too. Of course, he had a medical condition as an excuse for not hitting puberty until his late teens, but still….He had only had one girlfriend before me. He was so cute and nervous to be with me. Me.
And now, we’re (almost) the last people we know who don’t have at least one kid. All of my siblings, including my younger sister, are long done having children, and Hubby’s brother and sister-in-law finally got their two gorgeous boys after battling infertility themselves.
In my dad’s version of the story, minutes after I was born, I swung one strong leg right over the side of the hospital bassinet as they were wheeling me down to the nursery. That’s my favorite part.
We’re the last ones to bloom. But, if this follows the pattern of the rest of my life, sometimes the best really is saved for last. Perhaps our blossoms will smell sweetest. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.