It’s my first post of the new year. And I love when I get to write about happy things. Today my son Colin turns 8. All of the usual things go along with that: cake, presents, hugs, reminiscing. As I looked at the pictures of me, pregnant with him, I just can’t believe how the time has gone. Clichés are clichés because they’re true: the years go by faster and faster.
Christmas of 2001 was spent in New York City awaiting Colin’s imminent arrival. I was so huge and uncomfortable that I couldn’t get around too well. I was sure that baby’s head which felt like it was between my knees was going to emerge any second. Christmas came and went. As New Year’s approached I begged my obstetrician to induce me. Colin wasn’t due until January 10th but it was clear he was “fully cooked.” And big.
I called my parents and told them to come to the city. I just knew I wasn’t going to go much longer, and wanted backup so we could go straight to the hospital without worrying about Paige, then 3.
The morning of the 3rd of January Clarke was getting ready for work, staying home slightly later than usual after the holiday. I awakened feeling a bit off. I told him so. He lingered more, wondering if this would be the day. Shortly after 9 a.m. I said the contractions were starting. Only a few minutes apart. We called the garage for our car, but within 20 minutes the contractions were fast and furious. Out the door we went, got a cab, and started the 20 blocks to the hospital. By the time we got there I was in agony. Already a few centimeters dilated for the last 2 weeks, I knew there wouldn’t be much time.
After some (only funny now that it’s over) problems with an IV, a new nurse, and a whole lot of painful yelling on my part, I finally got into a delivery room. The nurses sent Clarke out as they prepped me for the epidural (with all of my yelling, they probably wanted to give me general anesthesia to shut me up… I was not doing well with the contractions). As I bent over for the anesthesiologist to get the epidural in my back, I could feel it… this kid was on his way out, nothing I could do about it. I sat up, yelled, “He’s coming!” as they sort of shook their heads, thinking they had time.
A nurse saw Colin clearly on his way into the world, and ran down the hall for Clarke, who had gone to the pay phone to check voice mail (pre-cell phone days). They both came running in, just as Colin came out. Literally 10 more seconds and Clarke would have missed the birth of his son. I would have loved that epidural.
He takes the cake for my most dramatic birth of the three children. At least after him, they agreed to induce my third, knowing I’d never make it the fifteen miles to the hospital here in Connecticut.
With the fullest head of black hair and 8 pounds, 13 ounces of bulk, Colin looked huge. And old. And that never changed. He was 20 pounds by four months. And always tall.
He was a challenging toddler (that’s code for “pain in the neck”) but grew into a lovely boy. He still is. He’s an athlete and quick learner with zeal for trivia and memorizing facts. He’s a caring and protective big brother and a loving football and ESPN-watching companion for his father.
I never thought I could have a son. I thought I would only do well raising girls. When Colin was born I knew we’d have to figure it out together. I can throw a football with some semblance of a spiral. I am getting used to a child who wants to wear sweatpants most days. Who forgets to lift the toilet seat sometimes. Who takes off dirty clothes and drops them on the floor.
But that boy of mine lights up my heart. His smile is spectacular. His giggle is infectious. His crewcut begs to be rubbed Buddha-style. He’s a big kid, dwarfing most in his grade. I hope his heart and his mind are just as large. I hope he knows just how much we love him, and how proud we are of him. Someday he’ll read this and hear it again. The words I say to him often will be here for him to read whenever he wants.
Happy 8th birthday, Colin. I love you and am so proud of who you are. I can’t wait to see what you are going to do with your charming self when you grow up. You made quite an entrance into this world. I hope you similarly make the world take notice as you grow.
I remember it so well.
I hope I never forget.
Those feelings I had eleven years ago as I had my first contractions and went into labor with my first child, Paige.
My husband and I were living in New York City.
I was taking a long walk home after an appointment when I
first felt the tightening begin.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon of October 27th.
By dinnertime I was at the hospital.
By evening I was home again.
Too soon, they told me.
Could be hours,
could be a day or two.
By midnight I was back at the hospital again,
This time for good.
All night we waited.
All night I labored.
And at 8:06 a.m. she arrived.
My daughter.
I left the hospital two days later in typical New York fashion:
not with a car seat,
but instead with sweet P bundled in a carriage.
We walked home the 4 blocks to our one bedroom apartment.
Two days later we emerged to show her the NYC marathon.
As every parent does,
I fell in love.
As Clarke worked 80+ hour weeks,
She and I were buddies,
my city baby and I.
For hours we would explore the city.
Everywhere I went, so too did she.
When she was one year old I had medical problems;
an autoimmune disease which attacked my skin,
pigmenting it bright red,
thickening the soles of my feet
and palms of my hands
until I could hardly use them.
Hours were spent in the waiting rooms of doctors
before I was correctly diagnosed.
The treatments were time-consuming.
Paige came to every appointment with me.
It never occurred to me to get a babysitter.
She just came along.
As she grew I just knew she was something special.
She was always perceptive.
Verbal.
Bright.
At sixteen months she sang the alphabet.
By eighteen months we were having conversations.
Once we started we never stopped.
Paige “gets it.” She’s an old soul.
She is so mature it is sometimes hard to remember her real age.
I am so lucky.
I am so lucky she’s mine.
And I tell her so all the time.
I don’t know what she’s going to do when she grows up.
But I know what she’s going to be –
All the things she already is:
smart
sensitive
loving
confident
grounded
brave
funny
creative
talented
focused &
lovely.
Paige has seen a lot in her few years.
More than I would have liked for her.
I wish I could have spared her some of the
difficult things we’ve gone through.
My medical diagnoses, especially cancer, and Tristan’s issues too.
There’s the box under Paige’s bed (“the box” 9.17.2009) –
The one Barbara gave her in anticipation of her birthday.
She knows what it is now.
It won’t be a surprise.
I know what she really wants for her birthday: she wants to have Grandma back. Alive.
Me too.
When Paige was 5
I got a call from the ski school in Jackson Hole.
“Paige is done skiing for the day,” they said cryptically,
“You should come get her.”
They wouldn’t give me details.
She’d fallen.
But they wouldn’t tell me anything.
Clarke was on the mountain skiing.
He was able to reach her first.
It was one of those times I marveled at how we existed before cell phones.
I made it to the medical clinic at the base of the mountain.
I walked through the swinging double doors.
I’ll never forget seeing Clarke and a doctor staring at x-rays
up on a lighted board.
It happened in slow motion…
I mouthed “Broken?”
and Clarke nodded.
My five year old had just broken her leg.
It was the first time I’d ridden in an ambulance.
I didn’t know the next time it would be my turn.
It was the first time there was a fracture.
I didn’t know the next time it would be my turn.
It all seemed so dramatic at the time.
Maybe being far away from home made it worse.
I had no idea I’d look back on that episode and think it was
literally “child’s play.”
After we finally got to the hospital and talked to an orthopedic
surgeon it was time to set the leg.
They’d given Paige pain medication and something to make her drowsy while they put the cast on.
Clarke and I were a few feet from the foot of her bed
talking about the logistics of getting her home on the airplane.
As she slipped off into a hazy slumber I saw her arm go up
into the air.
She slowly raised it, then her hand.
And then she made the sign language symbol for “I love you”:
Thumb, pointer, and pinkie extended out, middle and ring fingers
tucked back.
It was our signal.
I’d taught it to her as a toddler.
I wanted a way to tell her I loved her if I couldn’t be heard.
Across a crowded room, in a place that was quiet, or when she was nervous at a school performance,
I’d make the gesture for “I love you” and
she would know I was right there for her.
And so,
as she drifted off,
my five year old
told me she loved me,
that everything was going to be okay,
that this was all just a bump in the road,
all without saying a word.
Sweet P,
there are so many things I hope I’ve given you:
skills, characteristics and traits to
help you find your way in this world.
I hope I will have many more years to watch you grow
and see what you will do in the years ahead.
You make me proud,
you make me smile,
you make me laugh,
you make me cry.
Now, forever and always,
I believe in you.
May you someday know the joy that I have known having you as my daughter
and the special bond we will always share.
The love that Nana and I have,
now next to you and I…
I hope that you will have that gift
someday with a daughter too.
Happy birthday.
It’s my first post of the new year. And I love when I get to write about happy things. Today my son Colin turns 8. All of the usual things go along with that: cake, presents, hugs, reminiscing. As I looked at the pictures of me, pregnant with him, I just can’t believe how the time has gone. Clichés are clichés because they’re true: the years go by faster and faster.
Link to Twitter