The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Four

My wee one turns four today. Is that possible?

It's like I remember exactly what I was doing at this moment four Octobers back, lying in a brightly lit room where time seemed to slow and then pulse quickly from one second to the next. I remember the nurse commenting on the pretty nail polish I had on my toes while my feet were in stirrups, and I lazily told her about the pedicure I'd had a few weeks before for my sister's wedding. I was on all sorts of drugs, having long before decided that suffering is for suckers and I have to say I felt nothing and was even giddy while pushing. I was laughing and taking in every second, drinking in the faces and the sounds and the sky outside the window because it was the most important moment in my life and I didn't want to leave a bit of it out.

I remember pushing, face turning red and gritting my teeth, before falling back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. I pushed ten times, and on the final push (at 11:34 am), despite being numb through most of it, I could feel a rush of warmth between my legs, and I felt my girl leave my body. I burst into tears at the moment, not because of the effort I'd put into moving her out, but because I felt a bizarre mix of pride in myself for having made it through the entire pregnancy with little complaint or discomfort, and because I was so in love with the person I'd made with M., even though I hadn't seen her yet. My emotions took over and left composure out of it. They wrapped her up quickly, and she was making her exclamations; the deep, dry caterwauling cries that newborns and kittens emit when they are faced with the world outside. She had hair, a deep auburn shock of it, and I was amazed by that because my own red hair had long ago weakened under the strength of blonde, making my hair an indescribable shade, nowhere close to the copper I'd always hoped to keep. Her eyes found my own, somehow, and even though I knew she wasn't seeing me, I sensed she knew who I was by smell, by sound, by intuition.

M. cried too, and someone had the presence of mind to take a photo of the three of us, crying joyfully, and that photo is one my favourite things. I wish I knew who took it.

My girl was the kind of baby who slept through the night from day one. I am too happy with this to feel guilty in admitting it. I would try to wake her to nurse her, only to have her fall asleep over and over before figuring out that she'd eat when she wanted to. She would fall asleep at ten o'clock at night, only to wake at ten o'clock in the morning, which I have to tell you, annoys my sisters to no end. There was no colic, no interruptions at all, and I had a very hard time accepting her quiet because I thought it meant something was wrong. Aren't babies all loud, overbearing, needy creatures? Not this one, and if I hadn't known her, I'd still believe the myths. I had to get rid of the baby monitor next to the bed because every turn, every change in breathing patterns kept me fearful and alert. M. said it had to go, because listening to her every breath was making me crazy and if something were to happen in the vein of 'not breathing', I wouldn't hear it anyway. I relaxed about this after a few days. She went to bed without complaint, to her own room. The first few nights in her new crib, after she outgrew the bassinette, she angrily cried, but M. forced me to wait it out and not rush in to her. 'She's fed, she's changed, she's not sick,' he'd said. Two days after that, we never heard her cry about it again. She now watches the clock to see when bedtime is, and she always goes without complaint.

A few times I've broken down with love, as it were. Big, fat rolling tears when holding her have always happened in our private moments. In the backyard when she was seven months old, lying on a blanket looking up at the sky, and she nuzzled into me and fell fast asleep. On my lap when she was two, when she suddenly looked into my face and told me that she loved me with a conviction I could see in her eyes. Holding my hand, walking to the store, telling me how I am her best friend and that she loves spending time with me. By myself, when I realize how precious every moment is with her, how quickly the time will come and go, and that one day she will have her own life to live and it will not only be about me. This morning, while sitting in my bedroom while I got dressed near the closest, she said 'Mom, you're prettier than a red sunset.' She loves to play that game, the one where she tells me I'm the prettiest and then searches her mind for the most poetic reference she can. It always chokes me up.

Birthdays are such a huge thing for children, and last year I was feeling quite low when it was the day to celebrate. A fight with my sister who opted not to come for dinner, the other sister not coming either because of whatever reason, and my mood at my feet because I'd watched something depressing on television that day. We took her to the toy store and told her to choose whatever she wanted, and she said 'I don't really need anything'. Under pressure, she selected a four dollar puzzle and was as happy as if she had been given a diamond ring. She still plays with it too, a Dora the Explorer puzzle that glows in the dark and miraculously has all of its pieces. This year is different, though. She gets pleasure out of material things more than ever and there is pressure to make sure she gets something that will make her little heart sing. M. is going to take her to see 'The Wiggles' next week, but today she needs something which is wrapped in paper and has a bow on it. She also said she would like a cake, even though her official birthday dinner is this weekend and so far, both aunts will be coming with their respective broods in tow. Homemade pizza and cake, she said, and maybe a 'princess movie'. These are not outlandish requests. My goal is to make today about her, not about anything else, because that was all I wanted when I was a child. I wanted to feel special, to feel loved, and while I loved getting presents, I don't remember what most of them were now. I remember the feeling of those days, like that one day of the year had magic in it and it was all to do with me. If I can find a way to make my Kitty Kat feel that, then I will be successful.

I always find myself wishing that I could give her the world, but it recently occurred to me by looking at her as she explored the nature trail near the house, pulling apart leaves and inspecting the different kinds of flowers, that I already have. Then I look at her, see her smile, her wee face, and I listen to her laugh, her jokes, her jaw-dropping smarts, and I think it goes both ways, doesn't it?

Motherhood brings about a kind of certainty about life that you can't know unless you experience it. It rearranges all the priorities, brings clarity to hazy thoughts, and instills a deep respect for life that wasn't there before. You finally begin to understand what unconditional means and what perfect love is.

In many ways, today is my birthday, too.