October 27
Sun., October 27, 07:27 AM
My dad liked to quote Helen Hunt Jackson:
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather…
Personally, I prefer June. I’ve always been a spring person. Both seasons are beautiful in this area because of the sheer variety of trees and other plants. In the spring we become aware that not all greens are equal. And in the autumn we watch oaks and maples and poplars and all the rest turn diverse crimsons and golds and everything in between, amid the dark green strokes of pines and firs. Since they change at different times – some slowly and some faster – it’s an ongoing show.
But to me October suggests the beginning of winter, and I like it even less since I discovered that I no longer drive well at night. It means that I have to plan where I’m going and when, since I can’t go off on the spur of the moment if I have to be home before dark. By mid-December I will have to go directly home after work, and I feel positively claustrophobic. I digress…
I’m remembering an October day thirty years ago, a day that was perfectly beautiful. And I seemed to have sprung a leak – not a very big leak but, obviously, I was about to have this baby. My parents came to take care of my girls, and Husband and I went to the obstetrician. My regular doctor was out of town – not even worrying about me, since I never delivered this early. (I was only three days past due date.) The doctor who covered for him was adequate, but maybe a little less experienced, so that everything took a little longer, hurt a little more. He insisted on examining me in the office before letting me walk across the street to the hospital.
As I said, it was an absolutely gorgeous day. It was so warm that I only needed a sweater. I was rather astounded, since inclement weather seems to accompany important dates in my life. It snowed for my other babies, even the one born in April. I knew I would always remember that lovely day, even two days later when we took the baby home in pouring rain.
By 6:30 that evening, we had a large healthy son, despite the doctor’s fear that he had dislocated the baby’s shoulder. Husband finally had his football player. (In theory, that is; Son played Little League baseball, having learned from me.) My “preemie” weighed ten pounds. I had not been able to tolerate coffee throughout this pregnancy, so the cup they gave me for supper remains in my memory as the best coffee I ever had. I lost thirty pounds (water) in the next two days.
Son was, for reasons we’ll never know, a very difficult infant. Husband didn’t understand why I couldn’t comfort this baby as I had the others, because he wasn’t too pleased at losing sleep either. Even after the baby stopped being cranky every day at four in the morning, he was still difficult. Strangest of all, much of the time he didn’t seem to like me.
During his third year, when I was expecting the “terrible twos” and thinking this child wasn’t going to live much longer – because I was certain I would murder him – he turned into the sweetest little fellow, and he has been a charmer ever since.
Sometimes taking cues from his sisters, sometimes doing things his own way, he was curious without being too mischievous and almost unfailingly attractive. I heard women in the supermarket saying, “did you see that cute baby?” Waitresses loved him; I always got excellent service when he was with me. Once he started school, the teachers loved him too. And before first grade, just like the girls, he was reading. (I felt it was okay if I died right then; I had accomplished what I set out to do.)
I’m not about to recount his entire life story. He has been an exemplary son and works as a database manager/computer specialist. I was proud that he chose my alma mater, and he graduated as I did, with an education that has no direct bearing on his career but has given him the tools to think and continue to learn. And when one of his co-workers approached me at his graduation to say “he’s such a good man,” I was taken aback. My baby, a man? I guess he is, he’s thirty today. He’s about as grown-up as a man can be – if you don’t count the earring, the rock-climbing, the cars, the beer, and Sesame Street’s Grover (his alter ego).
Naturally, no one says anything but nice things to me because I’m his mother, but I’m always amused when someone tells me he’s a “hottie.” But I’m also a little smug. He’s what Husband would have been with a more fortunate upbringing, and I am so proud that we – together – were able to accomplish this miracle.
