Twenty-three years ago today I went into labor with my first child. I remember waking up in the wee hours of the morning cramping, anxious, and uncomfortable. I got out of bed so as not to disturb my slumbering husband with a lot of moving around, and padded downstairs to pace a bit in our tiny living room. I ran over in my mind what I’d learned in class about contractions and how to tell false from real ones–a real judgment call, that. I alternated for the next while between pacing and sitting in the rocker-recliner. I stayed awake in this state for well over an hour as I recall. I determined that the contractions were probably real, but not terribly insistent or close enough together to be anxious about. Eventually I did wake M at around 5 a.m. to let him know I was in labor, but that it was not yet urgent enough to call the doctor. So the two of us kept a sleepy vigil–I more awake than he–until we phoned the doctor at 7:30 a.m. and ultimately went to the hospital at 9:30. By then I’d called my mother to let her know what was happening, so she could make her travel plans to come out and be with me after the baby was born.
Labor and delivery can be a pretty long, intense process, particularly when it’s the first time and you have no idea what to expect. I learned that, although the baby’s head was in the proper position down into the birth canal, it was facing the wrong direction, so that much of my pain was in my back. For a time they had me lying on my side to see if they could get the baby to face the correct direction (to this day I can’t remember which way was correct.) For quite a while they had me in a regular hospital room–apparently bunches of pregnant women all decided to have their babies on August 18 and had already filled up the labor and delivery rooms. So much for the colorfully decorated comfortable, lowly lit room into which I was going to ease my child into the world. I ended up under glaring lights of a stark, white room.
Of course none of that really mattered once everything started happening at once. Labor was weird like that–hurry up and wait and then seemingly all of a sudden you crank into high gear. I won’t recount the details of the story–some are a little graphic and are not the point of today’s blog. Here’s what’s important: as 6:19 p.m. in August 18, 1988 my son Jared Emmanuel Jones was born. Immediately upon his arrival, the doctor set to work on him. You see, Jared had the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck three times and wasn’t breathing. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion–from my position I could see very little of what was going on except for the doctor and nurse hunched over this tiny body. Within what was probably no more than two minutes I heard a hoarse little raspy cry of complaint as Jared began breathing, moving around, and waking up to the world. Within another few moments they carried him over to me. He was wrapped up in a blanket and had a little blue and pink striped hat covering most of his straight, jet black hair. I looked down into his huge, dark brown eyes and he looked up at me (well sorta). “Hello, who are you?” I said silently as he looked up at me with a little furrowed brow as if asking me the same question. We’re each still working on the answer.
Today I related a little of this story to him as I wished him a happy birthday. I acknowledged that he and I haven’t had an easy relationship, that we had bumps throughout. I went on to say that, no matter the bumps, I have always cherished him.
“I know.” He said, with the same earnest, big brown-eyed expression that he wore 23 years ago.
“I’m grateful to the doctor who saved your life,” I said. “I’m grateful for and proud of who you’ve become and who you are becoming.”
He thanked me, admitting that at this moment he wasn’t sure what he’s becoming. I agreed with him, admitting I wasn’t sure about that for myself at the moment. The truth is, we are each works in progress and are becoming who we are moment by moment, day by day. My son is a wonderful, wondrous being. I acknowledge my deep connection to him, even as I attempt to let go of the caretaker role that I began 23 years ago. That too is an ongoing process, a work in progress, but I hopefully get a little closer to it every day.
Happy birthday, Jared…Mommy loves you.
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