On the one hand, I have wanted to be a mom for so long but on the other hand, I was not prepared with the many decisions that only I would make. I was told that my feto-protein count indicated that my baby may have down syndrome. I was told that if an amniocentesis would confirm this possibility, that I would be allowed to terminate my pregnancy, which at that time would be on its 5th month. I was told that that was a decision I had to make.
Ellen, a very good friend of mine told me that I could give my baby up for adoption; that there were couples who would love to adopt a down syndrome baby. I could not live with the thought that I might be facing my own child one day and not recognize my own flesh and blood. However, anguished by the thought that I could not die in peace having a child who would be an adult with a child's mentality, I started to panic and blame myself for being so selfish, bringing a child into the world for my own selfish reasons.
When the test results came out, I was told that I would have a normal baby boy. I named him after "kris," a weapon of the Mindanao island of the Philippines. It took a whole village, if you will, of my family and friends to get me through his first six years. On the day that he was born, two friends, one of them on the verge of hysterics and I went to the hospital. While there, I could hardly talk through the pain while my friend Beth demanded for the doctor to "Cut her open right now and get the baby out!" Everyone it seemed was in the middle of doing something on me, in me, around me.
A group of young residents came and introduced themselves and asked if I did not mind them looking in. "Are you kidding, come closer and look, today is open house...poke around, check the parts, I do not care, just pull this baby out of me." In what seemed like an eternity, I was finally given epidural. That was heaven. The pain went away, I was back to "normal." Coming from somewhere, I heard women, delivering their own babies screaming, "Oh my God!" "Oh it hurts!" I, on the other hand, busied myself putting lipstick on. At one point, a nurse and a doctor raced to my side. They told me the baby's heartbeat stop. It was just my clumsiness; I knocked over the probe that they inserted to detect his heartbeat. No worries.
Waiting for my son and the "labor pain" or going through the motion of labor pains was very, very boring. I decided to mount a stage play, lying on the hospital bed, while waiting for this baby. I opened each scene, said every line of every actor, closed the act, opened the next, concluded it, and did the curtain call of "Portrait of the Artist as Filipino."
Eventually, and after my three-act play, the doctors told me it was time to push. My friend Wennie who was my coach started to really annoy me. Why does she keep saying 'push' over and over again? I have been pushing and the damn baby was not coming out!? Why was he pushing himself back in? He probably knew that whatever was outside may not be as good as where he was. Smartass baby. What's his the problem? The doctors vacuumed him, but he would not respond to that baby dustbuster whatchamacallit! The last thing I knew, they produced a pair of giant salad thongs.
I did not need to be told that they meant business; either I push this baby out or they would have to pull him out with the thongs. They would have to use the thongs because I was really annoyed at this baby at this point.
I pushed, not even feeling the push anymore, I felt like my whole body was injected with novacaine, if that was possible. Then I heard him cry. And I was relieved. I was expecting to be overcome with emotion like some Hallmark moment see-your-baby-for-the-first-time tears but they never came for me. I was too tired to even act out that scene. I was just relieved and tired.
The nurses put him on my breast. I looked at this newborn. My baby. The one who kicked me and made me look like a tadpole. He was ugly! He was slimy and ugly! I started to laugh inside at the irony of all the emotional pains and labor pains and I got one ugly baby to show for it. And I fell asleep...
They would bring him to me and I did not know what do with him so I would ask them to take him back and feed him. But lo and behold I would have to take it home with me. I made all the wrong moves. I put the diaper backwards and I did not know that I should not leave the baby alone in the room lest someone steals him. I took him to my sister's home instead so she, her husband, and her three daughters could fawn over this newborn. My sister asked if I had bottles. What bottles? The hospital gave me bottled milk. She said we could use those for now so I should wash whatever was emptied. It said "do not mix with water." However, I could not get the last drop of water from the bottles dry enough. This baby was drinking milk like he owned a cow. I had to wash all the bottles all night long.
The next day, I was sure I killed him. He was quiet. I was going to blame my sister. I was sure the water in the bottle killed him. It was her fault. She told me to reuse the bottles. But alas, the baby woke up and as my niece and I tried to change his diaper, he peed like a garden hose. We laughed at this show of force. He was our very own Manikin Pis!
As I carefully changed his diaper and his clothes, I realized that he was beautiful and peaceful and smelled very good. As the days passed, I started to fall unabashedly in love with my little Kris; the one who would do a dramatic reading of "Goodnight Moon" with me, who appreciated my accented reading of "Harry Potter," and who offered me Band-aid to put over my eyes when he saw me cry for the first time. He was the three year old who once told me that I was a stupid driver. The one who told me and my husband that he could tell the future because "I am a ....psycho!"
Kris graduated from high-school yesterday. He is going away to the midwest in the Fall. I worry that he would not wash the fruits before he eats them; I worry that he would not remember to brush and floss his teeth; I worry that he would not wake up on time to go to his classes or not turn his homework in. My husband tells me not to worry; easy for him to say- he was not the one who gave birth to the slimy ugly baby. I worry that Kris would not miss me as I would miss him. I already do. Very much.
Yesterday, as we readied to leave the venue of his graduation, I stood in the rain with my husband, who met my son when Kris was only six years old. Years ago, when Kris would not do what we told him to do, my husband would warn Kris that he would (my husband) go to his classroom to talk to the teacher. Horrified at the thought of his dad coming to the classroom, Kris would do as we say. In high-school, my husband tried the same trick and our son told him, "Oh yeah, Dad, go do that. Like they would believe you are my Dad." You see his Dad is 6 foot tall, blond, and blue eyed while Kris is half Persian and has mocha skin. He would say to his friends with studied sarcasm, "This is my dad. Can't you see our resemblance?"
Yesterday, I realized that I cannot stop time. Kris has to go and pursue his own destiny. His dad and I would always be behind him and if necessary nudge him. I cannot push him anymore...he would not be pushed as I have experienced eighteen years ago. As we attempted to take a photo, he looked at us and with feigned annoyance said, "Mom, Dad, go away. I am fine. I will be with my friends." As we turned to go, I told my husband, "Why do we do as that jerk tell us to? Let us turn around, take a photo. Annoy him." We did. :-)
This Sunday, we will take him to Amsterdam for his graduation trip. And you know what, maybe he and his mommy can share a brownie!
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