A Note for Harrison

Dear Harrison:

Thirteen years ago, I found myself expecting the next chapter in the great adventure of our family to begin. I was slow and heavy, my enormous belly dragging behind me as I walked like some great, pregnant rat. Just a few years before I'd been convinced that no other woman in the history of the human race had ever been that large in her 3rd trimester: I was wrong. I was pregnant with your brother then, and was 30 pounds lighter. With you, I threw all caution to the fore winds and by enjoying all the foods life had to offer. ALL. THE. FOODS.

On the eve of your birth, I was 52 pounds heavier than the day your little life first sparked inside me.

I enjoyed every minute of your pregnancy, as there was no morning sickness; no headaches; backaches, yes, but like I said, 52 pounds—that’s a lot of mama, with a pinch of baby thrown in for good measure. But I felt great almost the whole time. Unlike my previous too-obsessed-to-exist first pregnancy, you and I had a blast just growing with each other.

When you were but a lima bean inside me, we hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps this is where you developed your adventurous spirit?

Time passed and soon I became convinced you were a boy in that way that mothers sometimes just know these things. You were named in part after your raucous, salty grandfather, my father, and from whom I think you got your amazing wit and ribald sense of humor.

On the day after your due date my outlook on pregnancy had changed somewhat. I lumbered into the doctor’s office in tears; all the assurances of the world that you would be early had backfired. I cried to the doctor, trying to convince her that no other human being had ever been so fat and uncomfortable. She laughed.

I successfully kept myself from killing her. To this day, I count this as one of my better accomplishments. Had I not been on my back, trapped under my own girth, there’s no saying what would have happened.

In the end, I think my tears—and perhaps the wrath exploding from of my forehead—convinced her of my misery: The joys of pregnancy were DONE. I could not go on. She did what she could to help my labor begin, and smiled gently as I left, making no promises.

I waddled about my day. It was sometime in the afternoon that I noticed that the contractions were "for reals and trues" (scientific term). Rushing to the hospital, I was convinced I was about to have you at any second, right there on the hospital floor. I COULD NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. I needed that epidural first. That was vital—I could not go through another labor like last time.  I was in enough pain at this point that I KNEW they would declare me halfway through the process of labor and give me the meds on the spot.

“A fingertip,” said the nurse. I hated her instantly. She was a heinous harpy, anybody could see that. “We can’t admit you until 3 centimeters. Walk around.”

I walked for an hour trying to stimulate labor further, at which point harpy begrudgingly admitted me to a birthing room. I began singing, “I got a golden tickettttt…” Harpy did not even snicker. I commenced hating her more.

Still, I smiled. I breathed. Both right after I requested an epidural. YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND. I’d done natural childbirth the first time. Your brother was born face-up, cord wrapped twice around his neck. It was a terribly painful birth involving a vacuum extractor. They spent more time stitching me up than delivering the baby.

No. I was swathed in fear. Emotionally, I wasn’t sure I could do that again. You aren’t supposed to remember labor pains. I remembered ALL OF THEM. I also named them. (Pregnant moms: Beware the pain called “Walter.”)

So I moved quickly. The anesthesiologist was on his way. I galumphed into the shower—they had a shower! Just for us laboring ones! It was amazingly relaxing. About then your grandmother arrived, and helped me to the bed. That’s when my angel-like anesthesiologist aka MY HERO entered the room, and I could hear cherubim and seraphim singing. I laid perfectly still and gazed upon his halo. All would be fine. I just knew it, All would be pain free. All would be OK.

AAAaand that’s when I promptly doubled over, announcing I needed to… do… something. Bathroom related.

The doctor held up both hands in surrender. “Check her,” he said. My brain was screaming. Why did he stop? WHY?

“She was admitted an hour ago. She was at 3,” the slathering harpy countered. “She can’t be at 10.”

“I’m not giving her the epidural until you check her.” Standoff. The nurse and the doctor eyed each other. Silence.

“OK let me help,” I said, as I rolled over, trying to speed things along.

Harpy checked. “She’s at 10, time to push.”

WAItwaitwaitwaitwaaaaaaaiiit… “Uhm what, now? What about the epidural?” I mumbled meekly. Or who knows, maybe I shouted it. My hearing had shut down at this point, my vision gone all tunnelly.

“There’s no time,” she said, her forked tongue flickering at me. “You’re too far along.” She was too far away for me to throttle. I thus began to panic. And cry. And hyperventilate. And do all those other anxiety-related scary things. “No, wait,” I begged. “Please, I need something…”

That’s when nurse harpy grabbed me—actually GRABBED me—by both shoulders and shook me one good shake. “Get a hold of yourself.” She had coffee breath. “You are GOING to have THIS BABY in 3 PUSHES—within 15 minutes this will ALL.BE. OVER.”

So maybe Harpy wasn’t so bad after all. She had gotten my attention, and calmed me. Three  pushes, fifteen minutes later, and there you were, your perfectly round little rapid-birth head, your sweet little newborn cry. Make no bones about it—I felt every subtle nuance of your arrival—and it was ok. I was ok. You were perfect.

I gazed at your sweet little toothless mouth and smiled at the clicking sound you made with your tongue. And your eyes—here we’d just met formally, and we sat staring into each other’s eyes for hours.

I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, and have loved you every minute since. You have filled my days with endless laughter. From wrangling with Power Rangers to standing atop of the highest point of the jungle gym; from reading at age 4 to creating video games at age 11. Your enthusiasm for life, your wit, and your charm, your kindness and goodness—all are you, and you are a gift to those lucky enough to know you. I am so blessed.

Happy 13th birthday, bear.

Love,

yo mama