The Circumstances of Your Birth

Either you were pushed from your mother's womb with great effort or a doctor cut the red lining and lifted you into the glare of hospital lights. Either your mother fed you from her breast or fed you formula like the majority of us 70s babies. In the worst circumstances your mother was gone too early for you to have a memory of her.

Either you were born whole or something happened in utero when cell met cell or during birth, and you've been forced, by nature of your bearing, to rise above a physical or mental handicap. In the worst circumstances, genetics or delivery has rendered you so broken that people avert their eyes when your mother rolls you into the neurologist's office.

Either you were born into a family as an only child, or you had siblings for companions. Either you were happy with this scenario or not. In the worst circumstances, you had a sibling once, but something happened to him or her. You may or may not remember. Your family may or may not talk about what they lost. Photos may or may not be displayed. This feature sometimes hangs like a thread. Pull it, and the whole family falls apart.


Either you were born of good stock, your parents both bright and attractive, neither harboring hidden fuck-ups, or you were born of parents, one or the other (or sometimes both), who struggle with deep-seated dysfunctions that were handed down to them by their parents, and you wonder if you can make it all stop with you. In the best circumstances, nurture overcomes nature, whether its a self-provided nurture or one afforded by family. In the worst circumstances, the defective aspect of your nature has been compounded by a lack of effective nurturing, and you either have no idea that you're a mess, or you have no idea how to clean up the mess that is you, thanks to a lack of both breeding and upbringing.

Either you were born in the best hospital your town has to offer, your mother given a basket of diapers and formula samples, or you were born in a home with a midwife and doula present. In the most remarkable situations you were born in an emergency room when your mother didn't even know she was pregnant, in the back of a cab because your mother waited too long and your father was on duty, or on your mother's kitchen floor because she was single and didn't get help in time. In worse situations, you were born in the grass of an impoverished country where you were sent off to an orphanage to wait, hopefully, for first-world parents you may or may not ever connect with.

Either you were born into a family that pulls you to them, the physical second-nature, all mouth-kisses, bear-hugs, and spooning in your parents' big bed, your mother's breasts as commonplace a sight as the hummingbird feeder in the kitchen widow, or you were raised by a family that was afraid of the body and its affections, and you're still unsure which way to tilt your head when you awkwardly wrap your arms around your father on special occasions. In worst situations, you were never shown tenderness and you've grown up unable to connect in a meaningful way with another human being.

Either you were born into a world where the car seats are Britax and the preschools are competitive, or you were born into a world where your mother has three jobs or no job, your food is government-provided, and you're often shipped off to the house of a grandparent or aunt when your mother or father is deemed an insufficient parent by the state. Many assume you'll amount to nothing. In worst situations, you're born in a country where famine and disease are commonplace, and any opportunities for labor that your mother may have are offered by first-world countries looking to take advantage of the circumstances of her birth.

Or some combination; it's rarely either/or. How blessed are you?

Miscarriage

Sometimes something terrible can startle you with its beauty. Take, for example, the bright ruby cabochon of blood I saw on my toilet paper a few weeks into an unexpected—but desperately wanted—pregnancy. The sun from the bathroom window glimmered off the perfectly round jewel, which was the first to appear, and then they just poured out of me, unformed and unfaceted, until I was an empty bag again. 

According to the week-by-week pregnancy newsletter I had optimistically signed up for, I was only in that fifth week, which is when this usually happens. The heartbeat comes a week or two later. Technically, I knew I was pregnant only for a short while, although my body knew prior to any plus symbol on a piece of plastic. I had a dream somewhere around conception that I was pregnant, and in it I could see the shape of a baby's hand through the skin of my belly. Sometime around implantation I was half awakened by a tingling in my breasts, which partially registered as dream. So I suspected. And just as I had a feeling I was pregnant before testing, I knew I wasn't pregnant anymore the minute I saw that first drop of blood. I checked in, and my body said, sorry, no. 

The hormone dump afterward complicated the grieving, or it made the grief for a gathering of cells that didn't even have a heartbeat yet more crushing, and I stopped functioning for a little while. My four-year-old said Mama, you're okay as he patted my head. The dogs crowded around my face to lick the salt off. My husband offered support and affection, but his response was more complicated since this was a pregnancy he didn't want.

A miscarriage happens thirty-three percent of the time in women over the age of forty. I guess I'm a statistic now. I'll be forty-three this June, and my husband doesn't want another child. I knew one was the magic number going in, so he's not a villain. I tried to renegotiate, and my accidental pregnancy ended in miscarriage. Therefore, it was the last chance I had for a second child. When we don't get what we want, we move on and hope no bitterness remains.

We have to admit though, if motherhood has resonated for any of us, we're talking a little bit about where addiction and instinct collide. For example, the painful sweetness as your baby first latches on, and you feel that cramp in your gut as his small mouth pulls your body back together. I remember how I wept as I folded the beanie and shirt my newborn son came home in, how they could fit in a Zip-loc. Knowing I will never again experience such complex joy feels like a personal tragedy.

And to be fair, it is personal. Directly after the miscarriage, I was a terrible person. I didn't think I could love my friends who were fortunate enough to have as many children as they wanted. I wanted to snatch babies away from teenagers I saw on the bus. I dreamed up ways to become pregnant anyway. But then when I became my true self again, once my body settled, I remembered how fortunate I am. I have a husband who is good with his son and good to me. I have a beautiful boy who is healthy and whole. I was able to become a mother and many women aren't. Many women lose their babies to accidents, violence, or disease.

In the end, really, I am one of the lucky ones.  

Dragging My Heels

I dragged my heels around Silverlake Reservoir a little while ago before Michael left for work. The sun was hot but the air was cold, and the San Gabriel Mountains were dusted with snow. The music plugged into my ears and the sunglasses over my eyes just made me feel even more apart from all the other people circling the water. There was a cramping sort of ache in the left side of my chest. I mean literally. Not like I'm making purple prose about sadness. I wondered if I have something wrong with my heart because I've been jittery about mortality lately.

Back home, my son continues to lay around, too sick to get up. My husband has now left for work, and the apartment is flooded with light, but we can't leave to enjoy the cold breeze rustling the leaves of the Eucalyptus. Or we can enjoy the view through the windows. I'll spend the day and night inside chasing my son's fever so he doesn't seize again. Go figure about the jittery part. Meanwhile, we watch Pixar movies from the couch because they make us feel good.

And lately I've been bombarded with bad news about other people's children. I read blogs about sick or hurt children, wanting desperately to believe in impossible miracles for strangers only to learn that the children die. I read articles about Hurricane Sandy on Staten Island, and they remind me about the boys swept from their mother's arms. It seems like I can't escape the reminders of our mortality and how it sometimes, stupidly, just comes down to luck. And today, despite my son's sickness, I think I might be lucky.

But, I don't know. After seven months of trying to conceive a second child, my husband has decided that we're too old and it's too scary and why would we want to push our luck, why would we want to rock the boat. However, I'm not convinced by his argument, logical as it is. It's true, though. At 42 and 46, we're really too old. My body doesn't seem to be cooperating to let this happen as naturally and quickly as it did with my son. But I've become just a hopeless, emotional mess of biological yearning.

So on the one hand I feel lucky to have one beautiful son. I know this. Really, really lucky and grateful.  On the other hand, it looks like I'll only get to have the one. All my eggs in one basket. And it doesn't seem fair that we've really tried to do things in a responsible way, and as a result of that, our age, and all the wisdom that comes with it, is now preventing us from making any more children. I should say that we looked (are looking?) into adoption, but the process, at first glance, seems insurmountable and filled with risk.

Anyway...I'm going to go back to watching Toy Story now. The bright colors are very cheerful...