I have a pie crust par-baking in the oven. I had thought I’d make an almond citrus cake or maybe a zucchini bread/cake hybrid with some kind of fluffy frosting. But when I realized that we would most likely be picking high bush blueberries the very day before Wilfred’s birthday, I saw that it was always supposed to be a blueberry pie.
Last year I missed all of blueberry season in the dream state of my perfect newborn. I missed apples too. As it should be. But this year, the blueberries are on my mind and I am so thankful to fold my family into the rhythm of what is ripe for the picking in our new home and with our new child by our side.
Berry Pickers.
It was some kind of blueberry perfectionist type-a magic y’all.
I’ve never seen a baby eat so many bluebs. Wow.
helping. both.
On this day last year, I woke up after a dream-filled and weary night, post-state-swim-meet extravaganza, with the soft and subtle pop of my waters breaking. It was early and I was surprised and yet ready, all through the day, even through the ebb and flow of momentum and the hourly administering of antibiotics that made it possible for me to stay home throughout. I was ready. A little nervous for the pain but so ready to meet and hold and love our babe.
All week long, I have been looking back on the memories of that day. August 7th 2019. I have been feeling so many feelings in the recollecting of my third and final birth experience. It has been my experience that this first birthday is when everything is as fresh as it will ever be again. There is a particular portal that Wilfred and I are passing through together now that we will not move through together again. The baby becoming the child. Leaving the depths of mama’s secure and all-encompassing embrace to head more in the direction of the big, wide, world of his family and the spaces beyond just us. It is amazing and wonderful and so sad and all the rest.
It is a threshold. One of the first of the many moments of letting go that parenting is. It is such a mix, you know? I want to be, as best I can with my each of my kids, and so especially when they are very wee, in this moment right now. This moment. This moment. And this moment. And yet, parenting is also keeping your eye on the long game, with a steadfast awareness of the individual they are being called to become.
The memories that stand out from the day are strange and random and lovely. I remember when the midwives arrived I was out in the driveway looking for Jeb who had wandered off and also gathering all of the flowers I could hold for a birthing bouquet to arrange for in the house. I remember how we were watching Parenthood as a family and we were in a scramble to finish the series before it left Netflix the following month. When I was still somewhat comfortable we watched an episode or two. I was trying to focus on that during the long duration of the midwives many and alternating attempts to put in a comfortable IV port. I remember, when Wilfred finally emerged how Jen, our primary midwife- who, as a side note, I chose from afar and only was with her for about 5 weeks and as many visits before our actual birth, and who could not have been better suited to us and me at this particular point in life and through this particular birth- was just in awe of how big and squishy his lips are.
So, I am happy-sad today. In awe of my memories of carrying, birthing, and meeting Wilfred as well as the wonder of this first year of getting to know him and see how perfectly and uniquely his little being is folding into the fabric of our family. I am so lucky and grateful to have easefully nursed another baby with my own body. Turning my body into his body and holding his growing self with my arms and whole heart. These days are so precious to me and I am also thankful to know that there is life after nursing and as much as I cling to this relationship, we will both be wonderful when it comes to a close, whether it is in this coming year or the next.
I think I am mostly sad that it will just be the 5 of us to celebrate the day. I wish his gran and his auntie and other far-flung, covid-trapped, loved ones could be here to share joy and hugs and merriment with us. And, of course, pie. I want to feed everyone who loves summer, and loves a leo, and loves the magical, unpredictable, surprise of life, all of the blueberry pie that they desire. This August 7th and all the ones to come.
We are all fans.
I love you Wilfred Thistle. And I love you Eider Atticus and Maple Louise, who dreamed him into being here with us just as much, if not more, than even I. And I love you Chris Newlin for rejoicing in the gift of this great remembering with me. We are the lucky ones.