The Artiste Becomes a Man

My baby is 18 tonight. Nicholas Jon was meant to be Nicole Marie, as I was meant to be Julie Marie.

Well, as I was not a disappointment to my mother, Big Nick Jon was not a disappointment to me. He was, however, a handful.

He was due to arrive on my 30th birthday, March 3, 1993. How cool was that? But, did Nicholas do what was expected of him? Hell, no. He picked his own birthday.

In fact, he kept us guessing and waited until roads were impassible, due to a blizzard.

On Mon. Feb. 22, while his dad was at work and his Grandma Fidler and I were shopping, Nick let me know he was on his way. Grandma rushed me to Harris Hospital in Newport, where Nick’s doctor was. False alarm. His brother never did that.

Although we had timed our route very carefully to the hospital from the ’hood, we really hadn’t figured in a blizzard. Come Wednesday about suppertime, Nick decided to make his appearance. We got in the Neon and headed to Jackson County.

On the way, we saw a beautiful shooting star. I wanted to change Nicole’s name to “Starr.” However, I had chosen Vincent’s name, and it was dad’s turn. Nick made us wait through “Home Improvement” and well into Jay Leno. Then, we were rushed to the delivery room. It was fixin’ to get more difficult.

Nick, like his brother, was very active. He was constantly moving around, finding where he wanted to be and having hiccups when he wanted to have hiccups. When the doctor (a pockfaced substitute from Memphis because Dr. Jabez was busy murdering ducks) announced we had a boy, I was fine with that. When he told us the baby wasn’t breathing because he had wrapped his cord around his neck (just like his brother), I was pissed.

The little guy was blue in the face and not making a sound. That acne-ridden doc slapped the Dickens out of Nick, and Nick let him know otherwise.              

Since then, my little artist has not fallen in with the “in crowd.” I’m so proud of my boy. I know he’ll do well.

Happy Birthday, my Sweetie Pie/Stink Pot!

Love,
Mom