One of my favorite (and I know many of your favorite) features on Marvelous Kiddo is the birth stories. So today I thought I’d share two stories today; my own, and that of my son, Alex. We were both delivered at New York Hospital (now Cornell Weill/New York Presbyterian) on the same floor, 30 years apart.
Every year on my birthday my mother and father would tell me the story of my birth – usually at dinner, after the cake. They would take turns, seamlessly switching the narrative of the story. It was something I looked forward to every year; I remember the story and how much I felt my parents love for each other and for me.
“You were a wonderful surprise,” my mother would begin. “We hadn’t planned on getting pregnant but you chose us and we were so glad you did.”
“Oh, we were such boobs,” my father would say, looking fondly at my mother. “We were living in New York City at the time, in a tiny apartment on Milligan Place in the Village.” He would continue. “We had just started Lamaze classes, and I had come straight from my favorite watering hole. I had booze on my breath and you can imagine how your mother felt about that.”
“You were six weeks early; and we were totally unprepared. I went into labor with one Lamaze class.” On the day of your birth a winter storm came through the city and the barometric pressure dropped,” my mother would say, “and every pregnant woman in the city went into labor at once! (I always loved this part the best – the idea of all the babies who shared my birthday). “We were lucky to get a room” she would add “There were women giving birth in the hallways! I labored for a while and then the doctors said it was time to push. Suddenly everyone left me alone; your father went to get his scrubs on and the doctors went to get ready. Then, you were here!” My father would say, “I remember how perfect you were in every way, but especially I remember how perfect your little heels were.”
Then they would talk nostalgically about their time in New York (they moved to Vermont shortly after I was born); how they had shopped at Jefferson Market; how my mother had eaten dinner at Joe Juniors every night she was pregnant; looking at the wood-burning grill they had and feeling cozy. How in the summers they would hear the lawn of the church being mowed across the street and feel that they were far away from the city.
When I was pregnant with Alex, I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would tell him the story of his birth. I wondered how labor and delivery would unfold.
My sweetest Alex,
You were a wonderful surprise. We hadn’t planned on getting pregnant but you chose us and we were so glad you did. Your father and I were living in New York City in a tiny light filled apartment with a terrace that I filled with container gardens every summer (and one year, a water garden with snails and goldfish!). The summer before you were born, your father and I had our first conversation about having children; maybe we thought, maybe we’re ready. And boy, did you take that opening! One week later we were pregnant.
I woke up one morning and felt different. I just knew you were inside me. I lay in bed while your father showered and watched the sunlight come through the window. I went to the bathroom and took a pregnancy test without saying anything. I remember the feeling of warmth that came over me when I saw the results. I got into the shower with your father and gave him the biggest hug and he knew too. He was so excited to be a father.
I spent the next nine months resting and thinking about you. I was a student and would make up late, eat a cheddar omelet from the bakery next door. Sometimes I’d wake up with your dad and make him a scrambled egg. But most days I slept in. Your father and I would go for walks in the park and sit on benches and read books, but mostly we’d talk about you.
You were due to be born on the 25th of May. The 25th came and we were so excited (and maybe a little be nervous). Nothing out of the ordinary happened; I felt you kicking in my belly. The next day came and went and then the next. I went on walks; I ate spicy Thai food; I spent hours walking up and down the 10 flights of our apartment building. All things that were supposed to help me go into labor. Friends called and asked if you were here yet. We went to the doctor for a check up and he said you were growing and perfect. Two days later, we went back to the hospital and the doctor told us that it was time. Your father was wonderful; rubbing my feet and bringing me food. I remember so clearly the first time I saw you and how perfect you were. Our room had a beautiful view of the East river. I remember holding you in the sunlight. That night, there was an amazing Memorial Day fireworks display out over the river and your father and I held you in our arms and looked at the fireworks together.
Every year on my birthday my mother and father would tell me the story of my birth – usually at dinner, after the cake. They would take turns, seamlessly switching the narrative of the story. It was something I looked forward to every year; I remember the story and how much I felt my parents love for each other and for me.
“You were a wonderful surprise,” my mother would begin. “We hadn’t planned on getting pregnant but you chose us and we were so glad you did.”
“Oh, we were such boobs,” my father would say, looking fondly at my mother. “We were living in New York City at the time, in a tiny apartment on Milligan Place in the Village.” He would continue. “We had just started Lamaze classes, and I had come straight from my favorite watering hole. I had booze on my breath and you can imagine how your mother felt about that.”
“You were six weeks early; and we were totally unprepared. I went into labor with one Lamaze class.” On the day of your birth a winter storm came through the city and the barometric pressure dropped,” my mother would say, “and every pregnant woman in the city went into labor at once! (I always loved this part the best – the idea of all the babies who shared my birthday). “We were lucky to get a room” she would add “There were women giving birth in the hallways! I labored for a while and then the doctors said it was time to push. Suddenly everyone left me alone; your father went to get his scrubs on and the doctors went to get ready. Then, you were here!” My father would say, “I remember how perfect you were in every way, but especially I remember how perfect your little heels were.”
Then they would talk nostalgically about their time in New York (they moved to Vermont shortly after I was born); how they had shopped at Jefferson Market; how my mother had eaten dinner at Joe Juniors every night she was pregnant; looking at the wood-burning grill they had and feeling cozy. How in the summers they would hear the lawn of the church being mowed across the street and feel that they were far away from the city.
When I was pregnant with Alex, I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would tell him the story of his birth. I wondered how labor and delivery would unfold.
My sweetest Alex,
You were a wonderful surprise. We hadn’t planned on getting pregnant but you chose us and we were so glad you did. Your father and I were living in New York City in a tiny light filled apartment with a terrace that I filled with container gardens every summer (and one year, a water garden with snails and goldfish!). The summer before you were born, your father and I had our first conversation about having children; maybe we thought, maybe we’re ready. And boy, did you take that opening! One week later we were pregnant.
I woke up one morning and felt different. I just knew you were inside me. I lay in bed while your father showered and watched the sunlight come through the window. I went to the bathroom and took a pregnancy test without saying anything. I remember the feeling of warmth that came over me when I saw the results. I got into the shower with your father and gave him the biggest hug and he knew too. He was so excited to be a father.
I spent the next nine months resting and thinking about you. I was a student and would make up late, eat a cheddar omelet from the bakery next door. Sometimes I’d wake up with your dad and make him a scrambled egg. But most days I slept in. Your father and I would go for walks in the park and sit on benches and read books, but mostly we’d talk about you.
You were due to be born on the 25th of May. The 25th came and we were so excited (and maybe a little be nervous). Nothing out of the ordinary happened; I felt you kicking in my belly. The next day came and went and then the next. I went on walks; I ate spicy Thai food; I spent hours walking up and down the 10 flights of our apartment building. All things that were supposed to help me go into labor. Friends called and asked if you were here yet. We went to the doctor for a check up and he said you were growing and perfect. Two days later, we went back to the hospital and the doctor told us that it was time. Your father was wonderful; rubbing my feet and bringing me food. I remember so clearly the first time I saw you and how perfect you were. Our room had a beautiful view of the East river. I remember holding you in the sunlight. That night, there was an amazing Memorial Day fireworks display out over the river and your father and I held you in our arms and looked at the fireworks together.
P.S. (From Leigh): I am so lucky to have Abbey as a dear friend and Upper West Side neighbor. Her unerring eye for great design and her wonderful talent for entertaining are a constant inspiration to me, to say nothing of her naturalness as a mother. Oh, yes, and she writes one of my favorite blogs!
No comments:
Post a Comment