March Forward, First

A birthday message for my youngest son.

When it came time for him to be born, I was well accustomed to the ways my body would shake and erupt. The third son to occupy and intend to vacate my womb in less than four years, I was the 23 year old mother of a three year old, an almost two-year-old, and, almost (yet already, I suppose) him. “You know how this happens,” people would joke, as my belly grew and stretched and I wrangled toddlers in a grocery cart or at the playground. Eyebrows were raised, advice often given, inadequacies glaring - but I was accustomed to this as much as I was familiar with the ache in the center of my hips, the movement of a son’s heel stretching across my taut midsection - the way a baby can wedge behind a ribcage for days. We say that things “get under our skin,” but it wasn’t until I reflected on carrying my three sons that I really understand what it means. They take over, use your food, take your energy, are connected by blood. There is no escaping the ways they move and shape us.

When it came time for him to be born, it was a Leap Day in a Leap Year and we arrived at the hospital (just around the corner from our house) with a laptop and a few episodes of Lost on DVD, fully intending to wait to have this baby until he could have a proper birthday. I make terrible and hormonal decisions while pregnant - a bad haircut with baby…