Love Unrehearsed
Page 167
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I watched in awe as five of the most iconic actors of our time each shook Ryan’s hand and gave him congratulatory pats and hugs.
His heroes, his mentors, the men he had admired and respected and strived to be like all welcomed him into their ranks.
Ryan stood at the podium with his beautiful gold statue clutched in his hands, still completely blown away that his dream had come true. He had finally achieved his greatest desire. His career as an artist had reached its highest peak.
“Thank you,” Ryan said repeatedly into the microphone. His eyes were locked on mine.
Everyone sat down in anticipation of his acceptance speech.
He had been dragging his feet about preparing until finally last night I made him write down what he would say if this moment were his.
“Thank you,” he said again. “I am so very humbled to be standing here in front of you all.” He scratched his forehead. He was so nervous.
Breathe, honey, just breathe.
“I didn’t think this goal would ever be obtainable, until someone convinced me otherwise and told me that dreams do come true if you point yourself in their direction.” He winked at me.
“That person is my lovely wife, Taryn, to whom I owe everything for this moment. She said two years ago that this script was Oscar-worthy and I’m so glad I listened to her.” He breathed out and chuckled nervously, shaking his award as proof.
I blew him a kiss from my hand and rubbed my stomach, pushing a tiny foot back down. Our child was anxious to have his birthday.
He reached for the little piece of paper that he had tucked away in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Written on it were the names of people he wanted to thank. I was glad he wore the silver tie and white shirt with his black tuxedo. He looked absolutely dashing.
Another powerful contraction hit. I grasped the armrest of my seat and locked my arms to help me ride out the pain. This one was difficult to smile through.
He looked out over the crowd. “I promise to make this quick as my wife just informed me several minutes ago that she’s been in labor for the last five hours, and I really don’t want her to give birth to our first child down there in the front row.”
The audience clapped and laughed.
He continued to fumble with the paper, nervously trying to unfold it. “Tell him to hang on, honey, I’ll be done in a minute.” The audience laughed again.
He scratched his eyebrow. “I just let it slip,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but everyone heard him. He shrugged, looking back at the five men still standing on the stage with him.
“Oh well, now the tabloids don’t have to speculate any longer and the paparazzi can stop asking. It’s a boy!” He looked out at the audience and grinned proudly.
The audience roared and applauded.
“I don’t know which moment of my evening tonight will be bigger, receiving this award or the arrival of my son, but I am grateful that they are happening on the same day so I can truly say that today is the best day of my life.” He took in a few quick breaths, trying to calm himself down.
“I’d like to thank my mom and dad, who are also here somewhere. Dad, yell so I know where you are.”
I heard his father yell “here” from somewhere in the back right corner of the grand theater and couldn’t help but smile.
Ryan continued his acceptance speech, thanking the amazing director, the crew, his co-stars, and expressing gratitude for being recognized among the other four nominees.
I was relieved when he finished, and I smiled when several of the superstars who flanked him patted him on the shoulders as he made his way to the side of the stage.
“Mrs. Christensen, are you in need of an ambulance?” a female stagehand asked, helping me as I tried to stand up.
“No,” I breathed in between contractions.
“Just my husband, his parents, and our limo.”
Four hours later, on March 9, at 11:40 P.M., Mitchell Ryan Christensen made his debut.
Seven pounds, ten ounces; twenty inches long—a perfect miniature version of his father, blue eyes and everything.
“Oh it’s good to be home,” Ryan sighed when we walked through the front doors of our six-thousand-square-foot, completely pretentious log home. Our five-day-old son was bundled up in his cozy blue fleece outfit with little puppy dog appliqués on the toes. He was strapped securely in his car seat carrier and slept the whole way from the airport to his home.
I immediately started unbuckling him so I could hold him again.
“Call the crew, let ’em know we’re back. I’m sure Pete and Tammy will rush right over to see him,” he chuckled, dragging our suitcases into the entryway.
His heroes, his mentors, the men he had admired and respected and strived to be like all welcomed him into their ranks.
Ryan stood at the podium with his beautiful gold statue clutched in his hands, still completely blown away that his dream had come true. He had finally achieved his greatest desire. His career as an artist had reached its highest peak.
“Thank you,” Ryan said repeatedly into the microphone. His eyes were locked on mine.
Everyone sat down in anticipation of his acceptance speech.
He had been dragging his feet about preparing until finally last night I made him write down what he would say if this moment were his.
“Thank you,” he said again. “I am so very humbled to be standing here in front of you all.” He scratched his forehead. He was so nervous.
Breathe, honey, just breathe.
“I didn’t think this goal would ever be obtainable, until someone convinced me otherwise and told me that dreams do come true if you point yourself in their direction.” He winked at me.
“That person is my lovely wife, Taryn, to whom I owe everything for this moment. She said two years ago that this script was Oscar-worthy and I’m so glad I listened to her.” He breathed out and chuckled nervously, shaking his award as proof.
I blew him a kiss from my hand and rubbed my stomach, pushing a tiny foot back down. Our child was anxious to have his birthday.
He reached for the little piece of paper that he had tucked away in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Written on it were the names of people he wanted to thank. I was glad he wore the silver tie and white shirt with his black tuxedo. He looked absolutely dashing.
Another powerful contraction hit. I grasped the armrest of my seat and locked my arms to help me ride out the pain. This one was difficult to smile through.
He looked out over the crowd. “I promise to make this quick as my wife just informed me several minutes ago that she’s been in labor for the last five hours, and I really don’t want her to give birth to our first child down there in the front row.”
The audience clapped and laughed.
He continued to fumble with the paper, nervously trying to unfold it. “Tell him to hang on, honey, I’ll be done in a minute.” The audience laughed again.
He scratched his eyebrow. “I just let it slip,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but everyone heard him. He shrugged, looking back at the five men still standing on the stage with him.
“Oh well, now the tabloids don’t have to speculate any longer and the paparazzi can stop asking. It’s a boy!” He looked out at the audience and grinned proudly.
The audience roared and applauded.
“I don’t know which moment of my evening tonight will be bigger, receiving this award or the arrival of my son, but I am grateful that they are happening on the same day so I can truly say that today is the best day of my life.” He took in a few quick breaths, trying to calm himself down.
“I’d like to thank my mom and dad, who are also here somewhere. Dad, yell so I know where you are.”
I heard his father yell “here” from somewhere in the back right corner of the grand theater and couldn’t help but smile.
Ryan continued his acceptance speech, thanking the amazing director, the crew, his co-stars, and expressing gratitude for being recognized among the other four nominees.
I was relieved when he finished, and I smiled when several of the superstars who flanked him patted him on the shoulders as he made his way to the side of the stage.
“Mrs. Christensen, are you in need of an ambulance?” a female stagehand asked, helping me as I tried to stand up.
“No,” I breathed in between contractions.
“Just my husband, his parents, and our limo.”
Four hours later, on March 9, at 11:40 P.M., Mitchell Ryan Christensen made his debut.
Seven pounds, ten ounces; twenty inches long—a perfect miniature version of his father, blue eyes and everything.
“Oh it’s good to be home,” Ryan sighed when we walked through the front doors of our six-thousand-square-foot, completely pretentious log home. Our five-day-old son was bundled up in his cozy blue fleece outfit with little puppy dog appliqués on the toes. He was strapped securely in his car seat carrier and slept the whole way from the airport to his home.
I immediately started unbuckling him so I could hold him again.
“Call the crew, let ’em know we’re back. I’m sure Pete and Tammy will rush right over to see him,” he chuckled, dragging our suitcases into the entryway.
