Pandemic Birthday
Popping balloons. My worst nightmare.
A haircut turns you into an older boy, and suddenly I am treating you like you are twelve. "You know better than that!" But do you? You’re like, two years old. Or three! You’re three years old. Jesus.
You're our only child, but I still find myself feeling guilty for your being the first born, or the Only Born. For having to endure my mistakes; like when I lead with emotion, to say the least. To feel my wrath, to say a little more. I know that even when I'm not my best, I'm still a good mother. And you're pretty remarkable at forgiveness, but I find myself asking for it a lot these days. All that pain that comes from living; and how sorry I am about it all.
I'm sorry I'm teaching you to stay at least six feet away from other people that you love, and to everyone else. To switch sidewalks if someone is coming your way. That you can't see your grandparents or your friends, even on your birthday, which is today. Your best pal Robin comes over and leaves a gift on the bottom step, painfully aware that distance is necessary right now. After spending your lives being encouraged to embrace your friends, to show affection, we are all suddenly telling you not to. You are active and wild and I love that about you; always wanting to explore everything, try something for yourself and then try it again when you fall. You’re defiant and stubborn, which I know you come by honestly-- and we have had our moments. But you're also still full of sweetness: constant I-love-yous, leaning in for a 'niss' or if we are lucky, the Trifecta of Affection: a hug, kiss AND a high-five. I am fogged by the years because I still so clearly recall you sleepy and lip-smacky, full of milk; spatters on your nose, happy if bundled, happier still if on your mother's chest. I mourn that baby a lot more often these days, only because that version of you couldn’t tell me that DAD’S THE BEST. NO I LOVE DADA. GO AWAY MAMA, YOU STINKY!
The other day, we take walk before dinner, just you and I. You want to revisit an alley we walked down earlier in the day to let you pee. You ask to hold my hand the whole time, which feels rare. We talked about trains, mostly, but also how everything is (still) closed. “But, the BASEBALL DIAMOND doesn’t have DOORS ON IT, but ITS STILL! CLOSED!” You hold your arms out out like the *shrug* emoji while you say this, and I understand your logic. I attempt to explain that I get how strange this is, and that I am sorry, that this has never happened before, and it is weird for me, too. But we can’t go back to the ball diamond, at least not for awhile. That we have to wait until it is open again. You then repeat it seventy-nine more times, because you are three. And then you gag because you smelled Gert’s yawn, or a bag of chips opening, or someone’s fart, or your own fart, because sometimes you can’t tell the difference, and because you are three, no matter what it is but especially about this, you are very accusatory.
And you have a very sensitive nose.
They said to wear a mask. Quarantine walks.
Three years ago today at 4:25pm you are born. And I was born a mother. Perhaps I should get a grip on this. The truth is, I expected this dumbfounding memory of childbirth to wear with age, like everyone says — “You always forget the pain!” — but so far, not. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to have experienced it, and shit — it gave me you, even if I forgot for a brief moment while it was all happening because of how fucked up it all was. You were beat up too. Jesus. Bruises on your earlobes! Who knew that could happen? I knew it was gonna be surreal, and it was. It STILL is. I haven't forgotten that either. Birthing you was the most excruciating and wonderful fucked-up moment of my life. And since then I’ve gotten to know the baby who latched to my breast five minutes after birth for seventeen months — almost constantly— sucking 70 pounds of weight from my body. A seven-pound loaf literally ripped from my loins to a 37 pound child who is afraid of nothing but saying hi to strangers (you get that from me).
Happy Birthday, Marlo Maze.
Oh yeah, a BABY. That's why we're here.
Twenty minutes born.
First Birthday
