TODAY IS THE ROCK’S BIRTHDAY. She’s 4. Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be 43. You’ll notice that she comes first. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? I should confess here: The fact that she comes first, and we don’t share our birthdays, was orchestrated by me, with the support of my endlessly patient obstetrician.
(One of several reasons I won’t be having any more children is that, in addition to refusing to try it again after 40, I also won’t do it again without my amazing doc by my side. She’s in L.A., I’m in New York, and that’s that. Our college savings account thanks us, and mostly I’m glad to be done with infants and the special kind of debilitating sleeplessness they cause, but sometimes, I wish we could do it again, and maybe even again. Sometimes.)
I wish that I were a natural-childbirth sort of person. I do. Though my husband could never have withstood the agony (never mind that the pain would have been all mine, just watching would have sent him to the floor in a dead faint) I carry a torch for that kind of earth-woman fortitude. Which I lack. Completely. With the River, my son, I experienced a couple of hours of unmedicated hard labor (and, to be fair to myself, 15 hours or so of easy, walking around labor) before being convinced by my nurse and my husband to GET. THE. DRUGS. I had one of the good experiences with a medicated birth, and was certain I’d be doing it again with the Rock.
My due date was approaching, fast but not fast enough, as was my 39th birthday. Because my son arrived 10 days early (perfect!) I had convinced myself that this little darling would be early, too. When the 10-day-early mark came, and went, taking my last shreds of tolerance and dignity away to the same mysterious place my ankles were hiding, my mood collapsed. Would this child never come? I made the call. “Please. Can’t you do something? Don’t you think this baby is cooked?”
Scheduling an induced labor, on the day before my birthday, seemed like a decent choice, and indeed, it was a lovely, easy day, culminating in one of the great moments of love I’ve ever felt, as that tiny girl joined the three of us in the world. While I may not have experienced birth in all its fullness according to some definitions, my heart was as full as it had ever been, and I treasure that memory.
Birthdays can be a stinging reminder of the passage of time, and not just when I regard my un-Botoxed brow in the mirror every morning (though my deteriorating vision seems to be helping the pain of that particular view). I am no Mama-Pollyanna. The portion of my life that will be taken up by others’ childhood often stretches out in front of me, reminding me of any number of things I’d love to be doing for myself. In those moments, childhood can seem impossibly long: nearly every night at bathtime, or when homework isn’t getting done, or when I am labeled a villainous meanie just because I want their teeth brushed, or the TV off, or the bed made, or no, this is not a restaurant, and I won’t make pancakes simply because you’ve change your mind about the eggs. But when I look at my children as they approach a milestone, and calculate how short their childhoods actually will be, I feel the air sucked out of me. At 7, my son’s childhood is just about half over.
The birthday I spent in the hospital, studying every bit of my daughter, introducing her to her big brother (and eating birthday cake brought my mom and my best friends) was one of the happiest I’ve ever had. I joke now about how I didn’t want to co-celebrate, how I thought it was a bad idea for two Aries women living under the same roof to have to share their special day, and as in every joke, this one holds some truth. But the larger truth is that every year, as I think about my birthday, I think less and less about myself, and more about about my son and his beloved, bedeviling little sister, the indomitable spirit of our family’s newest member, the way she’s completed our family. Every year, I am more grateful to be raising both my daughter, and my son, and more thankful for the love that holds us all together. Now that my mother has moved in with us, we have our own sort of sisterhood, three generations of it, under one roof, and I am quite certain that it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying without its youngest member.
Here’s to you, little sister. Happy birthday.
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That was lovely.
Wow. Beautiful.
And what a wonderful gift to give your daughter, these writings.
WOW!Hard to believe it’s been four years.I think of you often when trying to be patient with with my sweet spirited Ursula.I had no idea how different she would be from her brothers.So far, raising boys is easier.Sweet Eloise at 5 1/2 months is dreamy,I’ll keep you posted.
Miss you.
p.s Get your eyes checked and enjoy the glasses.It makes every thing so much easier.
By the way I just CELEBATED 50(you spring chicken)!
Paige,
Just discovered your blog. So much of this recent entry struck a cord:
– Your children’s childhoods “stretching out in front of you”, impossibly long (especially at bath time). I’ve always loved the saying about parenthood, “The days are marathons; the years are sprints.” FYI, since I changed bath time to before dinner, it’s not nearly as painful.
And I recognize that air sucking realization that at 7 your son’s childhood is half over. But nature is kind and gives even as something is taken away: Joe is turning 8 next month and there are now moments (a few) when he is surprisingly fun to be with — in the way that your friends are fun.
I too thought I’d try for “natural” childbirth, until I attended a pain management class at Cedar Sinai and a retired anesthesiologist, a dead ringer for Morgan Freeman with the most beautiful hands I’d ever seen, and apparently one of the developers of the modern epidural, said “You have a choice — spend your time in agonizing pain or actually be present for the birth of your child.” Made sense to me!
I’ve subscribed and can’t wait for your next entry.
xxx Jan Geniesse
Millie–thank you. I hope my words have some of the simple elegance that your design work does…
Robin–and again, thank you for YOUR kind words. Looking forward to reading your books along with my daughter in a few years :-)
Jessica–You will have a whole different perspective on sisterhood, thanks to your “Irish twins.” As they grow, we may have to lure you onto TSP for some guest posts about your incredible story.
And last but not least, Jan–how wonderful to be found by an old friend! I love your perspective on all of these issues. I’m going to try that bath before dinner thing, and see if it helps, now that my sweeties are old enough to eat without ending up wearing half their food!