This sleeping, eating, hockey playing machine turned eight today. Eight years ago I was sure we’d be caught in a brutal nor’easter named White Juan and have to hitch a ride on a snow plow to the hospital. As it turned out, it was only a matter of 27 hours of labour (which is coincidentally about as long as it took us to dig ourselves out a couple weeks earlier). I’m sure my wife remembers it all differently.
Happy Birthday, big guy.