Happy You Year
The days have been those of a snail. The year itself belonged to the hare. Those days and that year being the first of my son's life.
Yesterday, at 7:31 pm, he turned one. Last year, January 7, 2012, Mom and I were in the belly of the beast, otherwise known as a surgery suite in the basement of Mon General Hospital in Morgantown. No way was I giving birth at United Hospital Center in my hometown where I live with my parents. My mom has fought employees at every level of that place, all the way up to the president, for their "hellcare" services, so it would only make sense to choose a safer haven for the birth of their first grandchild (a miracle aside from the miracle of birth itself, given my path forever careening away from tradition). I would've preferred to stay in the cozy(ish), friendly(ish) delivery suite with only the midwife, the nice nurse, and my mom with my two aunts gleefully cheering me on.
My birth plan went the way of my luck in general: sideways, that is. My little boy's little heart was racing at an unhealthy rate, and the cord kept finding its way around his stubby neck, or so I was told afterward. In the midst, all I knew was that, after 15 hours, he wasn't budging. Stubborn, like his mamma and his memaw. Lying prone, looking back and forth between my mom and the ceiling, I could vaguely feel Doctor-with-the-odd-affect (is he dry or is he rude ... I could never tell) pushing and pulling on my innards. Soon thereafter, mom jumped up, clapped, and squealed "There he is!" while I, still unable to see him from behind the curtain over my midsection, asked, "Is he okay?" As if he had heard me, my new babe did me a solid and heaved out his first scream. One of the nurses was nice enough to take pictures in the surgery suite. There are a few taken just as another nurse put his bright, puffy, heavily creased face next to mine, when I told him I love you for the first time. I tell him all the time now, underscored and highlighted by sprinkles of kisses, most of which send him scampering away like a hyper puppy.
During my miraculous son's first year, he's been shortchanged. He didn't get the woman I used to be; he got the woman who became a product of her environment. The woman whose best qualities were dropped like a box of old trophies in the basement the day she moved back home. His mom was too sensitive to all the changes — not sensitive as in Merriam-Webster's definitions 3a and b, both of which indicate weakness. No, I mean sensitive as in definition 2a: receptive to sense impressions. Writers are artists, and artists are sensitive to their surroundings. The creative mind feeds on sensory impressions, and, as such, it falls limp in the absence thereof. Clarksburg, West Virginia, gives my eyes, my nose, my ears, my tongue, my feet and legs and arms...nothing. In lieu of beautiful distractions and distortions, I have felt leashed to a house on a hill in a town that I hate for being so devoid of L.I.F.E.
As I look back on his first year, I don't dismiss the joy: in my bond with my little boy; in my parents' overwhelming, overflowing adoration of him; and in my brother's at-first timid yet ever-growing relationship with him. The typical milestones, they've been funny and cute, although overall too ordinary for me, I guess. Our best moments were flecks of light found sneaking in through the drawn shades in a darkened room: Although sparse and subtle, they hold great promise of what lies beyond the curtains, time ahead that will be stuffed as full as that Build-a-Bear I didn't buy this year because the expense outweighed the benefit. I'll buy him one when he's old enough, and I'll tell the kid in charge of the stuffer to fill that sucker as full as its seams can possibly hold.
Yesterday, at 7:31 pm, he turned one. Last year, January 7, 2012, Mom and I were in the belly of the beast, otherwise known as a surgery suite in the basement of Mon General Hospital in Morgantown. No way was I giving birth at United Hospital Center in my hometown where I live with my parents. My mom has fought employees at every level of that place, all the way up to the president, for their "hellcare" services, so it would only make sense to choose a safer haven for the birth of their first grandchild (a miracle aside from the miracle of birth itself, given my path forever careening away from tradition). I would've preferred to stay in the cozy(ish), friendly(ish) delivery suite with only the midwife, the nice nurse, and my mom with my two aunts gleefully cheering me on.
During my miraculous son's first year, he's been shortchanged. He didn't get the woman I used to be; he got the woman who became a product of her environment. The woman whose best qualities were dropped like a box of old trophies in the basement the day she moved back home. His mom was too sensitive to all the changes — not sensitive as in Merriam-Webster's definitions 3a and b, both of which indicate weakness. No, I mean sensitive as in definition 2a: receptive to sense impressions. Writers are artists, and artists are sensitive to their surroundings. The creative mind feeds on sensory impressions, and, as such, it falls limp in the absence thereof. Clarksburg, West Virginia, gives my eyes, my nose, my ears, my tongue, my feet and legs and arms...nothing. In lieu of beautiful distractions and distortions, I have felt leashed to a house on a hill in a town that I hate for being so devoid of L.I.F.E.
As I look back on his first year, I don't dismiss the joy: in my bond with my little boy; in my parents' overwhelming, overflowing adoration of him; and in my brother's at-first timid yet ever-growing relationship with him. The typical milestones, they've been funny and cute, although overall too ordinary for me, I guess. Our best moments were flecks of light found sneaking in through the drawn shades in a darkened room: Although sparse and subtle, they hold great promise of what lies beyond the curtains, time ahead that will be stuffed as full as that Build-a-Bear I didn't buy this year because the expense outweighed the benefit. I'll buy him one when he's old enough, and I'll tell the kid in charge of the stuffer to fill that sucker as full as its seams can possibly hold.
This year, my son's mother will get back to being herself. She'll write more, for pay and here in this blog, which is her haven. She'll find a home, which she'll joyfully vacuum while singing off key, just like she used to — except now her audience will have her eyes and her smile instead of exposed genitals and four paws. She'll be more patient and less brusque with those who love her, because she'll feel free again. She'll try her damndest to be a better version of herself, since that's the best any of us can do. Besides, for the most part, his mom can get down with that girl in the mirror; she can be pretty cool.
My son's first year was a first year. Everyone has one, if they're lucky. This topsy-turvy one was ours. I learned how to be a new mom. My baby learned how to be a new boy. Today started to grow cloudy for me, despite the sun. Then my son took a nap and gave me the opportunity to sit here, at my laptop situated in front of the now-defunct screen on my dad's old pc. As words began to fill my screen, I remembered to remind myself that today starts another 365 for his mom to show him all the best, most magical things she's made of.
It's all for you, my love. Happy year ahead.
My son's first year was a first year. Everyone has one, if they're lucky. This topsy-turvy one was ours. I learned how to be a new mom. My baby learned how to be a new boy. Today started to grow cloudy for me, despite the sun. Then my son took a nap and gave me the opportunity to sit here, at my laptop situated in front of the now-defunct screen on my dad's old pc. As words began to fill my screen, I remembered to remind myself that today starts another 365 for his mom to show him all the best, most magical things she's made of.
It's all for you, my love. Happy year ahead.
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