Tomorrow, October 19, 2011, my “baby girl” will turn 21 years old–a momentous age, I suppose, depending on how one measures such things. It means that at midnight she can go buy a six-pack or a bottle of wine. To me the 21 part is irrelevant; I am simply grateful for the opportunity to celebrate my sweet girl. She and I share a special relationship after the fashion of the one I shared with my mother. We are very close. We talk a number of times per week. We share some of the same interests and talents for music and writing and other things. For a long time I referred to her as “mini Me.” As she’s grown, particularly these last couple of years in college, she has distinguished herself from me in a variety of ways, and definitely has become her own person, but in many ways we’re still peas in a pod. She asked me if I was going to tell something about her birth story on her birthday, so in honor of that request I will.
When I was pregnant with Michal–particularly as it got into the last few months of pregnancy, she would move around and position herself right at the top of my belly. Something big and round–either her head or her little butt cheeks–always seemed to be situated there. I used to say she was moved herself around to be closer to my heart. This was a very touching sentiment until we realized very late in the pregnancy that she was in fact upside down; she was breach–her head was tucked up at the top of my belly where her feet were supposed to be, instead of down in the birth canal. I remember the trip to the doctor’s office where this was discovered. The doctor came in during the regular exam time doing the regular exam kinds of things–listening to the heartbeat, measuring the approximate length of the child, etc. As he was measuring, he wrinkled up his face and said, “Uh oh.” (That is not one of those phrases one really wants to hear at such a time.) “I think the baby is upside down–it’s in the wrong position.”
Ooooookay. I made an appointment for a few days later to get an ultrasound to confirm the baby’s upside-downness and to determine what to do about it. I was met there by one of the other doctors in the practice who prodded me a bit and declared that he didn’t think the baby was breach. The ultrasound technician and others made bets based on his pronouncement, “Dr. V is almost never wrong,” she declared as she placed the probe up against my belly. It appeared that Dr. V was wrong that day. The baby was most definitely breach. So Dr. V told me that he wanted to see if he could “turn” the baby. I had to sign a release acknowledging that this action could cause me to go into labor, which would have been a few weeks ahead of schedule. All of this while Marcus was out of down and I was dealing with this solo. Trying to turn the baby involved the doctor mashing really hard in several different places on my belly–I mean, he was pushing hard. All to no avail–they had discovered it too late. There was no room for her to turn, she barely budged.
When I went into labor a few weeks later, they tried to turn her again, but in the end we decided to have a cesarean. Being in surgery while awake was a very odd thing. So many weird sensations and machines and sounds; My arms were stretched out to either side of me like Jesus on the cross, my tongue felt like an enormous block of wood, and I couldn’t even see the lower half of my body as it was obscured by a blue-green “drape.” Marcus was sitting at my head telling me what a good job I was doing (even though I was laying there essentially not doing anything). The oxygen and drugs were making me loopy and I couldn’t really focus on anything except how thirsty I was. One minute nothing was happening and the next I heard the baby crying and the doctor say, “It’s a girl.” At that moment I think I might have exhaled (though it would have been hard to tell.) Marcus leaned over to me smiling and said, “You’ve got your girl.” And then they brought her over to where I could see her. My first two immediate thoughts, “Oh, she looks just like Marcus.” and “Who is this little white baby?” (Editorial note: Though I often tease her with this story, the reality of Michal’s light complexion has caused her no small amount of teasing, bullying, and other forms of torment. Even though both of her parents are African American she is constantly explaining her ethnic identity to people who feel compelled to ask, “what are you?” Someday I’ll write more about this, but not today.)
Michal Terryce Chamblee Jones was such a beautiful, sweet-tempered, easygoing baby and a quiet, shy, loving child. During her early years she was like my shadow, following me around, hiding behind my leg in the presence of people she didn’t know. School was not easy for Michal, because of the timing of her birthday, she has always been one of the youngest students in her class. In retrospect, I often wished I’d held her back a year and let her mature more, but all the people at school doing the testing had told me she’d scored as being “kindergarten ready.” It took a long time for her readiness to actualize, and she struggled academically through the process, but she seemed to really hit her stride in college. To see her now, as a senior in college preparing applications for graduate school, I am so grateful to witness her blossoming into a beautiful, capable, confident young woman. It is a wonder to behold.
Michal's first trip to the hairdresser. Are we having fun yet?
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