Thirty-five years ago today my first child was born. He was actually due on about September 28th, but I had been anticipating his birth for three weeks. Braxton Hicks contractions, some dilation — not to mention that it was September, meaning that I had been ungainly during the entire summer. I had pre-washed baby clothes, folded them, and put them away. I had walked around the nursery umpteen times, staring out the window and envying the robin who had a nest in the Rose of Sharon beneath as she sat next to the nest and let the sun bake the eggs, then hatched them, fed the fledglings, and shoved them from the nest. I had acclimated the cat to the presence of the baby furniture, giving him extra attention and telling him that soon he’d have a baby brother or sister.
The previous day, the 22nd, I decided to treat myself. I made a chocolate cream pie. Pie — I’ve already mentioned how much I love it. And chocolate! So anyhow, I made the chocolate cream pie and placed it in the refrigerator to chill. Chances were very good that I’d eat the entire thing the next day.
Please note: whenever I’m talking to a pregnant woman, one who is nearing delivery and anxious to get it over with, I give that advice. Chocolate cream pie. Yes, I also suggest that she engage in a last minute cleaning spree and arrange the baby’s room.
Ok, so chocolate cream pie in the refrigerator, some serious television viewing time, and off to bed.
1:30 a.m. I woke up to the thought, “Either I wet the bed or my water broke.” It didn’t really matter which, since both meant that I had to get out of bed. Turns out it was the latter. I called my doctor, showered, dressed, . . . And waited. Yep, the expectant daddy was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t seem to drag himself from the bathroom. We finally made it to the car and then to the hospital and found that the ob wing was very busy. Several deliveries that night and the following morning. Mine was the longest labor. Of course, not that long. However, there was plenty of activity, cries of “it’s coming now!!”
Meanwhile, I lay in my bed. So much for plans of “get up and walk a bit,” “make sure you change position.” The doctor examined me and didn’t like the position of the fetus. Yes, head down, but facing the wrong way. The doc positioned me on one side and said, “stay there.” So we timed contractions and talked and waited. In the middle of one contraction I cried out, “Call the nurse — it’s time!” When the contraction ended, I felt pretty foolish for that. But the nurse came in and checked me and decided that yep, it was time. Off to the delivery room and a few minutes later — with only a little frustration and a good dose of laughing gas — I was the mother of a son (at this time we didn’t go through all of those ultrasounds and other tests: he was born and that’s when I found out that I had a boy). 7:05 a.m. As I said, not that long of a labor. Good vitals: 18.5 inches long, 7 pounds.
And almost immediately there were complications. The pediatrician I’d selected arrived promptly, checked on the baby as I was in the recovery room, and came to tell me that he was jaundiced. Funny, you hear about rH negative-positive incompatibility but that’s it. Turns out that my type O+ blood wasn’t compatible with his type A+ blood. He and I spent four days in the hospital rather than the three that were typical at that time. And he couldn’t stay in the room with me, spending all but the times he was brought to my room to nurse under a special light. I saw other babies during my stay that looked jaundiced, their skin yellowish, but not him — he was a healthy reddish color with a shock of dark hair and healthy lungs, protesting that he couldn’t be swaddled like the others but had to have his skin exposed to that light.
There’s more that I could tell, but those are the basics. It really was amazing to me, that this little guy was mine, a part of me.
I remember this story each year on the anniversary of my son’s birthday, whether he’s here or not. And yes, I also remember the story of my daughter’s birth on May 6th. It’s what mom’s do.
This year my son is living in Florida — has been for 13 years. I send him a gift, talk to him on the phone (that’ll happen later today), and think about that day long ago.
This year I also went through a strange ritual, a type of letting go. Yes, from the moment a child is born, he or she and the mother begin that process of separation, of letting go. There are several milestones along the way: the first time someone else holds the baby, the first time the child stays with someone else, eating food rather than nursing, going to childcare or preschool or kindergarten, sleeping over at a friend’s house, going to camp, driving for the first time, graduating from high school, heading off to college, etc. I’ve been through all of them, though my son has not married (yet) and I’ve not had to give him to someone else.
However, this year my son bought a house. This is very exciting though it dashed any hopes that someday he’d move back to somewhere nearby. And though I haven’t seen the house yet, he told me that he’s picked out a place for his Christmas tree. In all the years that he’s been in Florida, he’s not had a tree, but now he will.
Today I sorted through the Christmas decorations — the large box, too many to use all of them every year but still there. I made piles and then repacked most of them. However, now within the large box there’s a smaller one that is designated for Anjee.
And there’s a priority mail box that’s designated for Albert.
So many memories in those boxes: decorations that they made or that were made for them or bought for them. When I packed the box for Albert it seemed pathetically small.
But I suppose it’s a start. And over the years he’ll add more decorations and eventually have a large box with too many decorations to use each year and memories to accompany them.
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