My son, Sam, suggested that, if I don’t have anything to write about, maybe, possibly, I could write about him. Since I am still wrapped up in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), I’ve decided to take him up on that.

Sammy is 17 years old now. Since I was pregnant with him three years after I had a stillborn baby and two years after I had a miscarriage, he was probably the most watched and monitored fetus in Denver. And he was a stinker about it, too. As soon as the doctor found him and placed a belt on my belly to hear his heartbeat, he would move, and the game of “find the heartbeat” would begin all…