It is so hard to believe another year has nearly gone by and
soon, Dylan and Ruby’s birthdays will be upon us. Though they technically share
different birth dates, I went into labor with each of them on the same date,
exactly two years apart. For that reason, December 14th will forever
by my official labor day. I know their birthdays are technically about them but
now as a parent I literally feel a near uncontrollable urge to scream and shout
every year at this time: “Where is my cake? My balloon? Why is no one clapping
and cheering for me?! Do you know what my body accomplished on this date 5 and
3 years ago respectively?!” Reluctantly, I let the children have their days
while I silently reflect on how this day literally marks the anniversary of the
last day it was ever all about me.
It was December 14, 2007. I had been in labor and delivery
for two days while the hospital tried everything they medically could think of
to start my labor. It was a Friday and I had been on an all liquid diet since
Wednesday when I had first checked in for my induction. The nursing staff had
started taking bets on whether or not I’d ever actually go into labor. I’m
certain that Phil was running the action behind the scenes. I had met every
nurse and doctor on every shift and I felt as though I was recreating that
episode of Friends where Jennifer Anniston goes into labor and it takes forever
and she watches all the other ladies have their babies while she just waits. I
had hoped when all was said and done it would end similarly to the episode: me
with a healthy baby, and of course looking as Jennifer Anniston did after a
pretend birth.
I got the healthy baby part. I suppose that’s all that
matters.
As I look back on those first few pictures, I look green, I
look scared. I look like I am searching his face trying to figure out who he
is, who I am. There is a picture of my mother showing me how to hold him. I
appear to not know how to hold my own baby. I see me learning on the job from
her. I see Phil meeting his son. It was all so new to us and for that reason alone
it was amazing. Some parents say they knew their baby before he was born but I
didn’t feel that way. Not with Dylan. I had spent so much of my pregnancy obsessing
over silly and ultimately useless details – nipple sizes, baby registries – I never
took a moment to think about who that tiny person was that was actually growing
in there. But none of it mattered when they handed him to me. All I wanted to
do was study him, learn him, learn who I was with him. I love thinking about
that first labor day.
Exactly two years later on December 14, 2009 I was in labor
again with Ruby. I seemed to always know Ruby. Even before I was pregnant with
her and when Dylan was still a baby, I started thinking that if I ever had
another baby I would want to name it after my mom, Ronni Joyce. Seemingly out
of nowhere, I turned to Phil and said, “If we have another baby we should name
it Ruby Joy.” Dylan was five months old. I was definitely not pregnant nor
planning on being so anytime soon. A sleep deprived Phil looked at me and
nodded blankly in agreement – “OK.”
When I eventually did become pregnant we decided to find out
the sex. The ultrasound technician just confirmed to us what we had always seemed
to know: it was Ruby. For some reason, we always knew that, always knew her. I
spent much of my pregnancy again worrying about silly things like how I would
take care of Dylan and her at the same time. How would I split my love up
between them? But of course I shouldn’t have worried so much. When Ruby was
born I didn’t have to learn her. I knew her. The pictures show me less green,
less scared. I am holding her more confidently like I have done this before. And
although on my first day alone with both of them Dylan literally ate a magnet
off the fridge and it wasn’t the most picturesque mothering moment, we made it
through, without poison control. I was a multi-tasking maven. I was a proud mother
of two.
So happy almost birthday to the little man I came to know
and fall in love with. You are remarkably funny and sensitive and kind. You are
an old soul. And happy almost birthday to my little girl I seemed to always
know. You are my beautiful little firecracker. You make everything more fun
because we do it with fairy wings, which if you’ve never tried it, seriously does
make everything more fun.
And while it’s never about me anymore, in some way these
days will also always be about the evolution of me through the journey of
having and raising both of you. So happy labor day to me too… J
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