For the few who have asked and the little one who might one day inquire, here is a brief account of that most joyous of August days on which James Christopher, still tucked safely inside mother's womb, decided it was time for a jail break.

After a restless night with a restless belly, mom awakened dad and they headed to the hospital where the doctor declared that six days past 40 weeks was long enough. In short order mom was hooked up to an IV that ensured an imminent delivery, surely by the evening of this feast day of Jeremy Taylor, a 17th century English theologian, intellectual and writer whose best-known work is entitled 'Holy Living, Holy Dying,' which not inappropriately would describe mom's impending experience.

Mom and dad spent this warm day in Room 17, a sun-drenched space, complete with a veteran nurse named Pattie. We were soon joined by a man with a very long needle named Dr. Mansfield whose meticulous aim and precise prescription momentarily speared away the Legion that had been tormenting mom's tummy. Outside our window, Woodward Avenue weighed heavy with one million vintage cars, drivers, spectators, noisemakers and lookie-loos on Detroit's annual 'Dream Cruise' weekend. A few miles down the road, between Six and Seven Mile, the stretch outside our neighborhood, the mayor unveiled some nifty spray paint on the roadway: 'M-1' markers to signify this day as the 100 year anniversary of the first paved road in the world.

Meanwhile we were paving the way for another anniversary. By the dinner hour we were ready to begin the hardest part of getting a little boy into a big world. Our new nurse, Carrie, cheered with all the gusto of a Big-Ten cheerleader as Room 17 swelled to capacity. Dr. Stephen Dean calmly instructed his team, mom focused with determination on the job before her, and dad stood faithfully by, his head swirling with all the emotion of a wedding day.

At 6:52 p.m. the tender cries of a new life had everyone reaching for something; towels, scissors, sutures, note pads, ink pads, cameras and hankies. Eyebrows raised as we wondered just how random our ipod's shuffle really was as Handel's verse announced: 'For unto us a child is born.' Soon the swaddled and swollen one was passed to dad to show mom, baby's eyes searching to match unfamiliar faces with very familiar voices. His ice-cream complexion brought both tears and smiles as the nurse rendered the medical verdict: he's perfect, which we, of course, did not need anyone with any medical training to tell us.