Seven years ago today, I gave birth to my third child alone in my bathroom.

At the time, some people thought I was more than a little bit crazy to take this on in a somewhat planned manner. But for me, it was one of the best things I ever decided to do. It resulted in one of those rare peak moments in one’s life, an achievement you look back on later and say, “Life is worth living because of that.”

I actually hadn’t intended to be literally alone, as I was, at the moment when my son emerged. I had hoped my husband would be in the room, too. But the way it worked out, he had to go see to our other little boy, who had been sleeping, then stirred with a cry. He was 14 months old at the time and would occasionally wake up needing to be soothed back to sleep. River, would had been sitting on a stool in the bathroom reading some magazine and occasionally watching me writhe around on the floor in funny positions while I labored, tossing out careless, half-aware statements like, “You’re doing great,” had to get up and go to the bedroom and lie in the dark with our kid for a few minutes.

In that span of time I finally realized I had been going through transition unknowingly (that can sometimes define transition—an unknowing condition of total loss of all logic and sense of reality). I also realized I was about to give birth. I stood up and the baby practically fell out. I literally had to catch him to keep him from hitting the floor. And then I laughed and laughed and he cried, a little. I sat there looking at him and thinking that he came out like a cannonball. And that’s what I tell him today. It’s a good thing he was a light little baby at 7.5 pounds. His brother was 10.5, and I don’t think I would have caught him quite so easily the same way, especially with a head like a huge bowling ball and whatnot. This second son was light as a feather in comparison and for a while I wondered if they really were related.

Anyway River heard the little baby cries in the next room and thought to himself, “She did it!” He came in a moment later with a big goofy grin on his face.

That was a good time.

Now the kid is seven and it’s hard to believe. It’s an official departure from parenting “infants.” I’ve held on to the notion that children are “infants” as long as they’re under six. The milestone of six is when immune systems mature, molars erupt in earnest, and all sorts of other things turn a corner. Now that I have no children under six I don’t know where I am. I became an expert on parenting babies and toddlers and now I have to become an expert on something else that I will later forget how to do also. I guess that’s a good thing, because one benefits from the constant exercise of new muscles, but it’s also frightening. It’s a very good thing that humans grow up and acquire the ability to take care of themselves, if all is well and normal that is. Parenting is really designed to be a short-term role, and then we move on to elder care-giving, and we take turns doing the giving and the receiving.

Today I get to practice more giving by preparing the seven-year-old’s requested dinner: crab cakes, with sides of potatoes and green beans and salad, and a pumpkin cake. I am not going to bake a pumpkin cake. I don’t think I will be able to buy a pumpkin cake, either, but I’ll try. The second choice of cake is a strawberry cake, and I may have more luck with that. I don’t have to do anything as arduous as give birth today, but if I had to do it all over again I would want it to go the same way.

Posted by Heather B on 25 September 2007 at 12:56 pm.