It was 11:45 PM on March 16th as we got into the car.  All throughout the pregnancy, the joke was about having a WASP baby on St. Patrick's Day.  I have the English spelling of the name, Geoffrey, as a result of my father 1) not liking the name and 2) figuring he could redirect my mother on choosing the name by insisting on the English spelling of the name.  I mean, dad knew the antecedents behind why folks wore Orange on St. Patrick's Day for crying out loud.

Alas, mom was a stubborn canuck, so Geoffrey it is.

So getting into that car, I made one of many insensitive comments that tanked the marriage by looking at the pregnant woman and saying, "A  baby on St. Patrick's Day?  Just what every WASP needs."

It didn't go over well.

The delivery was rather uneventful save for the first time they told his mother to push.  A rather strong woman, she pushed, driving the nurse against the wall and his head hard into her cervix such that his mother had to get on all fours for a while and try NOT to push until things had settled down.

 Well, that, and a nurse offhandedly said to the pregnant woman with the WASP husband, "Ooh, it looks like you are going to have a St. Patrick's Day baby!  Are you going to name him Michael Patrick?"

"Do not even fucking go there." was all the gasping, contracting, pregnant woman could muster.

Out came the child with ten fingers and ten toes who turns twenty today.   He has a slightly unique first name and his middle name is that of his Uncle, Grandfather and Greatgrandfather.  Alfred.  

My brother was actually named by my grandfather.  Grandfather was a Mayor of a town of about 45,000 at the time and in his last of 5 terms before running for congress and losing by 300 votes.  My father had no intention of naming my brother Alfred.

But an aid to my grandfather handed him a slip of paper on a podium to tell him he was a grandfather.  He simply announced to the audience that Alfred III had arrived, and it was the banner headline the next day in the local paper.

My father was none-too-pleased.

My brother claims the hardest phone call he ever had to make was to my Grandfather to announce to him that he was a great grandfather.  Our Grandfather reportedly muttered, "Oh, so Alfred IV has arrived?"

My brother simply replied, "No, Gramp, we named him Justin.  We figured there were enough Alfreds."

"Well, I don't." is all my grandfather could muster.

So my little WASP baby born on St. Patrick's day has a middle name honoring a long line of men descending from an Englishman who emigrated to the United States in the 1880s.  He has very pale white skin and freckles, actually getting a sunburn at one of his early childhood birthday parties that shocked his mother and I into realizing just how easily the kid could fry in the sun.

And he has auburn red hair, to boot.

Most importantly, he is a kind and caring young man with a strong work ethic and a devotion and attentiveness to his mother.  He has a love for animals in general and horses in specific where his kind and gentle nature comes shining through.  That love of horses translated into a love of country music and a sense of patriotism that had him in ROTC.  He and I were in lock down at Virginia Tech in a building next door to the carnage on that fateful day on his college tour.

He's a young man any person would be proud to call their own.  Als Sr. and Jr., men he never met, would undoubtedly get a kick out of him.

And that's the Luck O'The Wasp on St. Patick's Day.