Quinland has been enjoying a pre-break Spring Break this week, as a parade of good friends has come to visit him in New York on their breaks.
Today, he and Gracie (visiting from Portland) and Alejandro (visiting from Ohio) went to the Museum of Natural History and then to beautiful (and snowy!) Central Park. Then, as they were just walking along through New York, they randomly bumped into Sofia, another friend from Portland who goes to school in the city.
This is a perfectly normal thing because the Borough of Manhattan has a mere 1.6 million people, and Q knows at least 10 of them. With those odds, he can expect to run into somebody he knows just about any time he goes into the city.
Twenty years ago, I was pregnant. Not as massively pregnant as I would later become (shown here at almost 42 weeks!), but legitimately with child, as confirmed by both a home pregnancy test and my doctor.
I didn’t believe it was true.
I mean, I had been pregnant the year before. We had it all carefully scheduled: we’d have the baby in March, so that — with spring break and summer vacation — I could have the maximum-length maternity leave a teacher could arrange. That’s not what happened, of course. What is the quote? Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans. Although I got pregnant on the first try, right on schedule, I did not have a baby at the beginning of March. I had a miscarriage at the end of August, just as I entered the “safe” 13th week.
I was devastated.
I became obsessed with getting pregnant again. As soon as we got the go-ahead to try again three months later, I became like Elizabeth McGovern in She’s Having a Baby, turning the whole process into a job instead of a joy. (I feel for David now, but at the time, I was so single-minded that I doubt I was very considerate.) Luckily, things worked out fairly quickly once again, and I was pregnant by early in 1998.
I just couldn’t accept it.
That spring, at the St. Agatha Auction, we bid on and won the basket my class had put together: everything you could possibly need for an infant. Crib, stroller, high chair, changing table, swing, car seat, clothing, diapers, toys . . . you name it, and we had it for the baby.
I put everything in the attic and refused to get the nursery ready.
The baby was due around the 1st of October. I went into pre-term labor on the 4th of July. I was given terbutaline and put on bed rest. Whereas I had spent the previous summer blissfully pregnant and happily traveling through Europe, I spent the summer of ’98 lying on my right side, watching the World Cup sideways, growing ever larger as I “ate for two” and did not move at all. (With one famous exception, of course.)
By September, I thought perhaps it was possible that I’d have a baby.
At that point, I was allowed to get up from the couch, to go back to work, to do anything I wanted. (A baby born at 38 weeks would be considered perfectly healthy.) I remember going to see Billy Bragg at the end of September, when I was basically at full-term; I think his manager was afraid I’d have the baby then and there.
I still didn’t want to get the nursery ready. I didn’t begin to set anything up until the baby’s due date had come and gone.
I could tell the story of Quinland’s birth here, but I think I’ll save that for another time. I had just come across this picture on my computer today, and I was feeling wistful and pensive, as we used to say back in Ireland. I’m sad for that girl I was, who let herself experience the joy of pregnancy once, briefly, but never again. Part of me wishes she had been braver or stronger or wiser, but I know that’s not fair; we all bring our past hurts and fears to every situation, and she was doing the best she could to protect herself.
If only I’d known, then, that it was real, that there would be a child, one whose very spirit would bring joy, not just to his parents, but to everyone who knows him.
That would have been awesome.
(By the way: I wore that dress every single day for the last couple of weeks I was pregnant. I did not own a single other thing that would fit.)
Why have I gone such long stretches without blogging in the past? What trips me up? What holds me back?
Time has a lot to do with it. Not in the sense of not having time (or making time) to write. It’s that I always want things to be in perfect chronological order, and I want to blog about them at the exact moment they happen. But a) life doesn’t always provide immediate blogging time whenever something cool happens, and b) most of you wouldn’t even know that I was going out of order, anyway! It’s all just a roadblock constructed by my own mind, by my own sense of what is “right.”
Well, guess what! I do not have to be perfect. Not in this blog, not in life, not anywhere. I can choose a random photo, a random story, a random topic — in other words, anything I want — and just run with it. There is nobody to ask for permission or to chastise me for my choice. The choices are just that: MINE.
That said, let us take a look at these adorable children.
Let’s call them “Quinland” and “Crowley,” because those are their names. It’s hard to believe that a mere five years after this photo was taken, the small person on the left would be in New York, studying theatre, and the small person on the right would be in the U.K., studying art.
If I had unlimited funds, I would travel the world to hang out with these people and see what they are doing in their lives right now, because I miss them horribly. This whole “empty nester” thing is a serious drag. Even if the fry didn’t spend their every waking moment with me (and they certainly did not), they floated through my line of sight often enough that I felt I could keep up with their lives. Now, I have all sorts of time for other things — cooking, cleaning, getting enough sleep when I am sick — but I’d trade that in a second to be a fly on their walls occasionally.