Through a series of circumstances, my two children ended up three and a half years apart. This was a good thing. My son was old enough to understand that a new baby was coming, but not so young that he felt threatened by a sibling. He loved to put his hand on my stomach and feel his sister dancing. By report he was a very proud brother, bragging to all his friends at pre-school that he was getting a new baby. One day he announced to us at dinner: Mommy has a baby in her tummy; her name is Emily. And I have a baby in my tummy; his name is. . . Benjamin!
Thus, we prepared for two arrivals. Our son watched us feather the next for his new baby sister. We painted the room next to his to resemble Pepto Bismol, filling it with flowery fabrics and a matching pink rug. He continued to plan for the arrival of Benjamin—whatever that meant inside his three-year-old head.
As we drew closer to the day in question we began making arrangements. One of my husband’s colleagues lived near the hospital where I was to deliver. He suggested that we bring our son to stay with his family when I went into labor. Our kids were close friends and our son was familiar with their house, so this seemed like a good plan. We began preparing our son for the inevitable chain of events. We discussed with him that when it was time for the new baby to come, Mommy would go to the hospital and he would go to Allie’s house. Together, we packed a little suitcase with a change of clothes, some pajamas, a toothbrush, and his favorite bedtime companion—a trusty stuffed gorilla. Unbeknownst to him, we also purchased a little blue-clad baby doll, which we hid in the trunk of the car wrapped in his old receiving blanket. This would be ‘Benjamin.’
October arrived. The Atlanta Braves held on to their lead in the pennant race, and ‘Emily’ flatly refused to be born. The Braves clinched the pennant and still, no baby. Finally, I decided to try inducing labor by attending the opening game of the World Series. The guards had to open a special gate for me because I could no longer fit through the turnstile. “When are you due?” they asked nervously. “Ten days ago,” I announced proudly to their concerned looks. I spent the entire game walking up and down the aisles of the now demolished Fulton County stadium; I jumped up and down for Atlanta
The next morning it seemed as if labor was finally going to start. We called our generous friends, giving them a ‘heads up’ that we would be heading to the hospital soon. They had plans to attend a kid’s birthday party. They suggested that we drop off our son early so he could attend the party with them.
The three of us had brunch together--our last day as the small family I had loved so much for three and a half years. Soon we would be adding a new member, changing forever the dynamics of our sweet threesome. After brunch, we gathered up our son and explained: “Your new sister is finally coming. Let’s get your suitcase so you can go to Allie’s house.” Obediently, our son brought his tiny suitcase downstairs. We piled into the car and headed to Allie’s house.
When we arrived, Allie and her parents came running out to greet our son. Once out of the car, we began our goodbyes, handing off the tiny suitcase to our friends. Suddenly my son wrapped himself around my leg and would not let go. He started to scream and sob uncontrollably, finally forming the words: “I don’t want to live with Allie!”
It took a few seconds to register: first shock, then understanding. With all the preparation, we had not realized the message we were conveying to our little man. Children, we learned, hear exactly what you tell them. “When the baby comes, Mommy will go to the hospital and you will go to Allie’s house.” Our beautiful son believed we were replacing him with a new child. He was clinging to me with all his might because he did not want to be given away!
We burst out laughing, but then I realized the pain that overflowed this vulnerable child. I broke into tears, picked up my son, and planted kisses all over him. It took us a long while to calm him down and erase his fears. We tried to do a better job of explaining that he was just going to play at Allie’s house until we could come back and pick him up. As it turned out, labor stopped, so we were back sooner than expected.
That night was Game 2 of the World Series. I elected to stay home with my son, sending my husband to the game with a friend. Emotionally spent, my brave little boy fell asleep on my lap while I stroked his blonde hair. It was the last time I remember experiencing a true calm in my life, the two of us together in a quiet house while the Braves battled through a tough game. With the final crack of a bat, Terry Pendleton popped out to third and I went into hard labor. Rather than repeat the fiasco of that morning, I called my brother after midnight asking him to stay with my sleeping angel while my husband and I headed for the hospital.
The next day, my son came to visit me and his new baby sister in the hospital. I made a point of telling him how much we couldn’t wait to come home to him and be a family together. When we did, a swaddled Benjamin came home as well. My son had moved on from his fear that we would give him away, but it was a long time until I stopped seeing that petrified look on this face. I have never forgiven myself for causing him to experience that kind of fear.
Today my son goes to college three thousand miles away. Now twenty-two, he likes to remind me that he is an adult (usually by ordering a beer at dinner). To me, however, he is still that little boy asleep in my lap. I continue to clean his room and prepare his favorite dishes so that he feels safe in the knowledge that he is an indispensable member of our family.
Tomorrow's blog: In Praise of Ira and Marshall
No comments:
Post a Comment