Shattered Dreams

When I left off in yesterday’s blog, I was a shameless flirt who would exploit my growing abdomen for cheap plumbing, a facilitator of illegal labor, and an unfit mother about to bring a baby into a disgusting house of guano.  Fast forward to the plumbing Messiah who saved the day and our dwindling savings account, and we were back on our path toward new parenthood.  On a particular Thursday, I could be found painting myself down the new stairs—the last of the cosmetic touches, signaling the end of remodeling.  Already in the early stages of labor, I panted shallowly to endure the increasingly deep and fast contractions.  Later that night, only after the last riser was brushed with its second coat of paint, I agreed to go to the hospital.   After sixteen hours of hard labor, our beautiful son Jonathan tipped the scales at 9 lbs, 15 ounces.

I was so proud to bring our new son into this adorable home that we worked so hard to prepare.  We successfully turned two tiny one bedroom rental flats into a single-family dwelling, with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a wonderful laundry room where a second kitchen once stood.  I had the carpet in the baby’s room steam cleaned, painted the walls, hung shelving in the closet and drapery on the window.  I realized what a powerful instinct nesting was as I folded and refolded the tiny baby clothes over and over and over again.  We had an antique examining table that I adapted as a changing table.  I utilized a gender-neutral and high-contrast color palette, determined that the checks and moo-cows would demonstrate my commitment and skills as a new mother.

And then it was Mother’s Day!  That Sunday morning, the hospital released us with the baby, apparently not concerned that two adults were taking away a living, breathing child without a clue what to do next.  We pulled up in front of our little Victorian home, where the “Aunt Rose” bush we planted in memory of my grandmother’s sister was in full bloom.  I could not wait to put tiny Jonathan in his new crib, surrounded by the bright and happy scene I had set for him.  On one of the rails was the red ribbon my mother had suggested—a Jewish tradition to protect from the Evil Eye.  (My kids do not realize that their beds still have these ribbons on them.)

We put the baby in the crib, propping him slightly as instructed by the hospital nurses.  Exhausted, I took to bed, hoping to grab what sleep the angels would grant me.  Tom went outside to finish off where the plumber left off. 

After the broken sewer pipe was replaced, we had a big hole and a big mound of dirt.  Tom decided that, as a dentist, filling a cavity was among his core competencies.  Shovel in hand, he replaced the dirt in the hole.   Once completed, all that remained was to re-seat the decorative column that was part of a pair of functional supports for a bay window that jutted out above.  The house was originally a single story, and now included a daylight basement where we had situated the two bedrooms.  The bay window framed the Victorian parlor of the main level of the house.

Apparently, dirt does not go back into a hole exactly the way it comes out.  Thus, the ground was now a bit higher than before we initiated the repairs.  It needed about a century to settle back to its original plain.  Not to be defeated, Tom worked and worked, beating at the column in some misguided belief that it would shrink into submission.  I awoke from my post-hospital nap to the sound of the pounding from outside.  I started to rise, certain that the new father had lost his mind.  Had he forgotten that the baby was asleep just inside the window from where he was working?

Then it came—a sound so profound and life-defining that you know at that moment that you will never forget it.  It was a cataclysmic crash followed by the sound of breaking glass.  I started to take cover, but instantly realized that there was a freshly hatched baby in the next room.  My mind raced, trying to imagine a scenario that involved that sound and a happy, healthy newborn. 

I walked into the nursery—a room I had taken such loving care to prepare for my baby—and it was a complete disaster.  The large window was gone.  In its jagged opening the old column lay in a pile of dirt.  Shards of class were everywhere:  on the rocker, the dressing table, and even across the room in the crib where Jonathan was sleeping.  Tom stood outside, the shovel still in his hands, kneeling down and peaking in to assess the damage.  “Oops,” he said, humbly.

I will assure you, gentle reader, that all was okay in the end.  A glazier made an emergency call, fitting the traumatic opening with plywood pending the repair of the window.   Our new vacuum cleaner got a workout, searching again and again for microscopic glass shards buried in the carpet pile.  Jonathan was oblivious, sleeping like he was still deep in the womb.  And Tom’s greatest wish was answered:  he was never again permitted to repair or tinker with any part of our home.

Tomorrow's blog:  Where To Go for Vertigo