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2/5/04 Sarah Catherine showed up earlier than expected. Beth was apparently in labor at dinner time but let me drive off to my 8:00 gig at the Trevose Holiday Inn without cluing me in. The Holiday Inn was the closest thing to steady work I’d had... I played there Wednesday through Sunday nights for $500 a week. That was big money in those days and it helped me hoodwink the bank into giving us our first mortgage -something Beth and I realized we’d need desperately once we’d assembled and positioned Sarah’s cradle and changing table in the corner of the living room of our cramped three room apartment. (Sean’s rig had already taken over the tiny dining room...) Anyway, bar gigs don’t have sick-leave. No play - no pay; and I guess Beth figured we needed the money so off she let me go. I found her packed and waiting when I got home at 2AM. With mere minutes separating her contractions I helped her down the three flights of stairs and into her bright orange VW Rabbit. On the way to the hospital I did my best Speed Racer impersonation, weaving the Mach 5 through a maddeningly comatose string of delivery trucks and home bound shift workers. I remember praying that I’d attract police attention, maybe get us one of those siren blaring escorts, as I ran each and every traffic signal between the boroughs of Ridley Park and Darby, Pennsylvania. Leaning on my horn and flashing my brights the whole way, I must’ve blown through thirty red lights and even passed two Duncan Donuts en route. Of course no cops took notice whatsoever. On the way to the hospital Beth and I tried to make small talk. Stuff like - What do you want to name this kid? Although to that point we’d been unable to agree on any names for the baby, I remember finding my wife much more susceptible to my suggestions than she’d been previously. I knew it was going to be a little girl. Not that we’d peeked. We always gave the docs instructions not to spoil the surprise. But I knew. And I wanted her name to be Sarah. I have sons. Yes, God has blessed me. Three strong healthy sons. Fred MacMurray and Lorne Greene have nothing on me. And there is, I admit, something about siring sons that lends itself to a... I don’t know... it’s a guy thing I guess... a primal kind of sub-marrow induced swagger. It comes out with your brothers while you’re polishing off a couple of late night post-delivery pitchers of beer. A kind of celebratory "Yawp!" that translates roughly into- "I am man! See what I have made!" But here’s the thing. For a dad, nothing beats a daughter. Why? The only way I can explain it is with a story. Sarah was young, about three years old. I was training for my first marathon and had collapsed into the living room easy chair after a 20 mile training run. She walked into the room. Thinking I was asleep, my little girl gathered up a heavy crocheted blanket from the back of the couch and carefully strained, on tiptoes, to drape it over my spent body without waking me.... It took her almost five minutes to get it arranged to her satisfaction. Then she kissed me on the cheek and walked out of the room in complete silence. A son just doesn’t do that. A little boy sees you asleep, smiles slyly, and, with a running start, leaps through the air onto your stomach yelling "Cowabunga dude!" Sons love you too. Every bit as much. They just show it differently. That’s why I’m glad we had a little girl sixteen years ago. Happy birthday Sar! Love, Dad
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