what matters and why

baby

1/13/02
10:45am

Four years ago, it was my last week of pregnancy. It was the first time I’d been able to enjoy my time alone since we’d been married. I was still getting used to living with someone all the time. It was a small space that we lived in but comfortable. I hadn’t done too much work on the baby room. I was never much of a decorator. There was a crib, which our mothers had put together, a small dresser, and the computer desk in the corner. Not much room for a child. I was ready for him though. I couldn’t sleep at night. He would keep me up all night long, kicking and moving around. I’d never had morning sickness but that last week I spent a few nights with my head in the toilet. I was so uncomfortable. But I loved getting the chance to spend that week alone before he was born. It wasn’t very often after that I would get the chance to have time by myself. That Saturday, my friend asked me to go to a basketball game, and I wanted to. After a week at home, I needed to get out. But for some reason, I didn’t go. I wasn’t sure I could handle the long car ride, and also was embarrassed to be seen as huge as I was. I was only eighteen. Gaining twenty-five pounds that nine months did nothing for my self-esteem. I was very aware when people would stare, or even give dirty looks and I knew they were wondering how old I was. I made sure to show the ring on my finger if possible in those situations. Maybe they would think I just had a young face. I wanted to go to that game, but I didn’t. If I had I would have ended up an hour from the hospital when my water broke. It was late that night, and we were hanging pictures on the wall. We were arguing about what to hang up. He likes lots of stuff, I like simple. It’s always been a battle. I tried to take down the picture he wanted to put up. He chased me around and we laughed. We weren’t in the mood for a fight. It was stupid anyway. What did it matter what was on the wall? When it happened the first thing we did was call our parents. We didn’t know what else to do. We waited for about thirty minutes until he started getting really nervous. He’s like his mother in that he is very cautious and concerned in those situations. Ironic that his family was at the hospital before we were. “It must have been the Mexican food,” I remember his mother saying. As always I smiled at her and tried to hide my feelings of discontent. I hated it that they were so involved. That when we moved into our new two-bedroom apartment three months before, they were there more than I was. They’d be there when I would get home from work. When I was tired and only wanted a nap, they would be there. I only wanted my space and I didn’t know how to stand up for myself at the time. I was afraid to tell him the horrible feelings I carried around since he was so defensive when it came to his family. As usual, I kept my mouth shut. In the emergency, they asked what was wrong with me. I had to tell them I was nine months pregnant and ready to deliver. I’d gotten really good at hiding my belly. I hadn’t even worn maternity clothes. Only sweatpants. They put me in a wheelchair. When I started to argue, he told me to be quiet, not to fight. It wasn’t a big deal. I just felt so helpless having someone push me through the halls. Our room was big; there was space enough for him to bring the Nintendo and later invite all our friends. We watched “Billy Madison” that night, the movie we’d started to watch at home. I could see the dirty look on the nurse’s face when she came in and, on the TV, Adam Sandler was doing a retarded impression or something. I knew she thought we weren’t ready to care for another human being as we sat there and laughed at his strange sense of humor. We slept on and off that night, him snoring on the chair next to me. The news was on all night long. It was funny; until then I hadn’t realized the news played that late at night. I’d never been up at three and four in the morning watching TV. I guess I thought it was all dead air. I flipped through the channels and couldn’t find anything. I tried to sleep. The drugs had kicked in and I felt nothing. The contractions hadn’t been that bad. I think it was worse for him, having to watch the needle go into my back. My mother had all three of her children without drugs, and I always got the feeling she thought I was weak for not doing the same. It wouldn’t have mattered. He would end up arriving as a c-section anyway. I don’t remember being scared or even feeling anything at all. I know I was ready for him to come out. I wanted to feel normal again. I wasn’t dialating and in the morning they decided to do the surgery. I don’t remember him crying but someone told me later he was. It was like I was in a dream, like I was there but not really. I remember the comment that the nurse made, that he wasn’t coming out that way. She said, “you’re just too small down there.” I remember thinking that was funny because I’m not small anywhere. My teeth were chattering when we were ready to go in. But I don’t recall feeling scared. Half an hour later at nine in the morning, our son arrived. I think I cried when he was coming out; it hurt more than I’d expected and felt like it lasted forever. I couldn’t hold him, only look. His head was one shaped and full of hair. He weighed almost nine pounds, but didn’t look large to us. They put staples in my stomach where they’d cut it open, and I couldn’t feel it but knowing that they were there made me sick to my stomach. In the recovery room, I my throat was dry and I couldn’t stop shaking. He was there the whole time, except when he went in to cut the cord. He was wearing those blue scrubs. He kept asking the nurse if the shaking was normal. I finally got to hold him, but only for a while. The drugs for the pain kept me in a world of my own. People came in and out and I could hear them talking but couldn’t respond. I tried breastfeeding and wanted to cry when the nurse wasn’t very patient. I wished they would leave me alone. They came in and pushed on my stomach and I cried more. He would get upset when they did that, and would turn around and face the wall. I wanted to keep him for the night instead of having him in the nursery. I lasted about an hour, and then when he cried and I didn’t know what to do, I asked the nurses to take him back. I felt like I’d failed but I was so tired and could barely hold my head up. The next morning my mom asked if I’d kept the baby in our room, and his response implied that it was me who sent him to the nursery and I wondered why when he had agreed with that decision. Like I failed and not him. Family visited and stared at us when the baby would cry wondering what we would do to keep him quiet. His family wanted to help too much. Mine only looked at us as if to say, “what are you going to do?” He would get frustrated. We changed his diaper, and he pooped all over the changing table. I when so impressed that he remembered every little detail the of the nurse’s instructions, even where to fold the diaper and how to get it to stay perfectly. We went home after three nights there, taking this tiny little human with us. His eyes were big and blue and he only seemed to open them when he was with us. His head was full of black hair and was absolutely huge. No wonder he wouldn’t come out. There was a little mark under his nose; the doctor promised it would go away. It still comes back when he gets angry. He has two moles on his left foot, one on the top and one on the side. His fingers and toes were both so long, and double jointed like his father’s. His tongue is long like mine, and his eyelashes are long like Daddy’s. He was perfect then, and even more now. We were so careful with him, always checking to make sure he was still breathing.

In five days, he will turn four years old. Tonight he was curious as to how exactly he came out of my belly. He has not yet requested the answer to how he got there in the first place, but he’s very concerned with how he came out. He wanted to know if it hurt when my tummy was cut open, and how did it go back together? He didn’t like that idea, and I promised him that boys will never have babies in their bellies. He was very grateful for being a boy. I love how he is so sensitive and always thinking about how other people feel. When I’m upset he says that he doesn’t want to have a bad day; he would rather have a “silly” day. He’s changed so much in these four years. He still has those long eyelashes and beautiful eyes. He’s still got an enormous head. We have to buy adult sized hats for him. He asks what those spots are on his feet, and how come I don’t have them on mine? He gets this look on his face when he wants to smile, but doesn’t and it’s so cute. Almost every sentence lately begins with “why” and ends in a question mark. He is very curious. He wants to know why everything is the way it is. And then he wants to know more. He remembers everything we tell him. This little child has become our entire life. We could not ask for anything more perfect. I cannot believe it’s been four years since he came into this world. He was the most perfect baby. I would do again in a second.