Harold Is His Middle Name

When I told my dad his name, Andrew Harold, he said, "Don't you mean Harold Andrew?" I said, "No."

It's Andrew's birthday today. What I said about him last year still goes. You can go here if you want to read it.
http://widowschronicle.blogspot.com/2009/03/andrew-harold-schiess.html

But, of course, this year changes him. He's a year older, duh, and gives him someone else who carries his name. That would be three now: his own son Jacob Andrew, Lola's son Patrick Andrew, and the newest, Ann's son Edmund Andrew. Can't be too bad a name.

But that's not really about him, is it.

This year has changed him. I see some of those changes. One is his discipline to shed those pounds. Good for him and good for his health. One is his stepping up so Michelle could go to school. He is the evening Mr Mom, cook, listening ear, and still he functions as dad. One change I probably didn't expect but do see is his genuine affection for their dogs. There are others, no doubt, but I don't know them.

He's still a good family man, still wise with money, still a good story teller.

In early March 1971, as I remember it, my mother came to be there for the birth of this fourth child of mine, and Andrew's birth was the last one my mother came for. She just couldn't manage the trips, I guess.

As usual, she came too early and had to leave almost immediately after the birth. My fault, really, I always wanted her there early and thought I'd give birth early. Wishful thinking, obviously, and obviously wrong.

By the way, Andrew was a big guy. He weighed 9 lbs 10 oz and made his mother work hard to get him here. Well worth the work. He was such a good-looking, healthy baby.

Andrew was only a few hours old when my mother held him--they made an exception to their rules and brought him into my hospital room for no other reason than my asking them to, but don't get me started on that--and was told by nurse what-was-her-name that now infamous thing about boys and what they grow into besides their noses. We all blushed, except for the nurse. And who asked her?

Andrew, our third son, always handsome, always a good runner, a good athlete, strong of mind and body, usually adventurous, always tender of heart--and that's a good quality. A boy his dad and mom were proud of. A boy they always loved, even if he is the middle child.

Happy birthday to you, my son Andrew.