In honor of my son’s 24th birthday…
The celebration started in the pre-dawn hours of a Sunday morning. Torrential rain fell and a white mist rose off the slick road. We got to the city by 5 a.m., the dark sky not yet showing the first hints of daybreak. Gingerly getting out of the car, I stood a moment on West 12th Street, astonished at the quiet, almost palpable hush. So weird for Manhattan to be this motionless.
In the deserted lobby, a lone security guard nodded a greeting as we followed the arrows toward the elevator. I was about to experience a birthday unlike any other. Though not my own, certainly my most memorable. That June day, the day my son was born.
The small guest list included my baby’s father, Dr. O, the obstetrician, an encouraging nurse and my mother. Like many a birthday past, we chatted, even joked, at least early on. Unlike past celebrations that often ended in the early morning hours, this one was just beginning.
Other differences? The shapeless cotton gown I wore was hardly the taffeta confection I begged Ma to get me for my eighth birthday. Nor did it remotely resemble my teenage ensemble of gigantic hoop earrings and jeans, or the purple silk jumpsuit I wore for my big 2-0.
No one passed around cake and no balloons bobbled overhead (not yet anyway), and instead of cocktails, ice chips quenched my thirst. My doctor assured me that I was “progressing nicely,” so I refused the offer of an epidural. Not long after, I wished for every kind of drug displayed at parties past.
Parallels can, however, be drawn. Screaming over the masses in a cavernous club, or during labor in a small hospital room, results in equally strained vocal cords and parched throat. Shouts of encouragement filled the delivery room, evoking the egging on of revelers doing shots. Though, instead of “go, go, go,” my ears rang with “push, just one more.” When my newborn finally arrived, I experienced a giddiness not unlike the feeling that lingers after a good party. Yet no all-night reveries ever left me more exhausted or sweaty.
My baby didn’t sport any fancy bows or shiny paper. Instead, shortly after he entered my life, he was handed to me wrapped in a plain cotton blanket. That Sunday may have been my son’s birthday, but I got the gift.