Saturday, March 15, 2008

Dear Max

When I was pregnant with you we were so excited about having a baby, having a family. We talked about you every hour and we listened to you every minute. Because you were standing up inside my womb, we had to have a C-Section instead of a natural birth. I was devestated and relieved all at once.

It was 8:23 in the morning when you finally joined us on this side. I was behind a blue curtain and couldn't see or touch you for what seemed like an hour; but it was only minutes before your Dad brought you to me. While I waited for you, I was dubious. In my distortion, I heard a cat and asked the doctor if there was a cat in the room. He said no Treice, that's not a cat, that's your son. I said "are you sure? It sounds like a cat." He said he was sure. Believe it or not, I kept pressing the issue.

When your Dad brought you to me I held you and smiled. To date, this was the most surreal moment in my life. While most non-parent adults [like your Dad and I in the moments before your arrival] have seen babies, not all of us have seen newborns. And while we thought we were having a baby, we realized, in our first sleep deprived 57 hours that we had a newborn, and not a baby. I hope you too learn some day that these are two very different species. You became a baby soon enough, thank you.

I was so curious about you. A lot of women told me their stories of love and lights, and peace and understanding, and warmth and glowing this and shining that at their births, but not me. Nope, just intense curiosity. I wanted to put you on my tongue like a lozenge and figure you out slowly; I tried to meet your darting dark eyes and look deep into them to see if there was a brain in there or the moving parts of a clock. I wanted to feel for your ribs and see if your skin stretched around them like mine does. I wanted you to tell me how it felt to be resting on me instead of in me. I wanted to know who you were and who you might become. And I wanted to know who I was and who I might be with you in my life.

In the hospital room, your Dad slept on the floor and I got the hospital bed. You slept in a clear plastic rectangluar bin. At night, we would take turns walking you, feeding you , holding you and lgetting to know you in the hospital hallways. Your Dad thought he had it rough until he saw a Dad with new born twins crying at the same time! When it was my turn, I sang the only song that I could think of singing. "From this moment, I will never let you go". That was the title and only line, and I sang it over and over again; more like a chant. That night, at about 8:23, your parents were born.

It was there that we first discovered your feet. They appeared to be the size of a small boy, maybe in Kindergarten or Grade 1. I asked the doctor if they were too big. He said "well, they're generous."

You are 20 months old now and I've been singing to you since I wrote my chant. Sometimes, I sing the old favourites like Frere Jacques (by the way it's 'sonner a matine', not 'semma lemma teema', like I thought), and Hush Little Baby. And other times I sing the ones I've been making up since you were born like 'There's Another Human Being In the Bedroom', or 'His Name is Max and He Doesn't Like to Relax', or 'From This Moment I Will Never Let You Go'.

These days you talk about trucks and tractors and firetrucks. You love the sound of ambulances and airplanes and you eat mostly blueberries and Sunny Boy Organic Whole Wheat Waffles. After you eat, you hold your wrist with one hand, extend your middle finger and ask for 'won mo waffle.' You love the Butterfly Kiss and the Eskimo Kiss (although we're not allowed to call it that in 2008; it's a Nose Kiss), and you never leave me without blowing me a kiss through your tiny fingers. You've just planted peas, parsley, onions and pumkins in the garden. Your Dad bought you a baby watering can, and each morning you wake your Dad up to water them with you.

When I ride you around on my bike you say "Lally Bop" or "Ready, bump!" When you say 'pool', we think you're saying 'poo' and get excited that you're telling us you need to go! When we put you on the toilet instead of taking you to the pool, you drop your lower lip in disgust of your parents and say "I don wan it." Yesterday you said "comfortable" and I believe that tomorrow, you just might say "I didn't want scrambled, I prefer fried, but thanks for your effort Mom."

When we get to a locked door at home or elsewhere you say "Mommy needs key."

My dear Max, you are the key to all the locked doors in my world.



Soressa said...

This a beautiful letter for Max to treasure. My dream and vision is that he can read it at your side, with you both in awe of your miraculous recovery.

Anonymous said...

My dear Treice,
now you know how your Mom feels about you, and how I feel about Kelly. It's so pure and lovely.