These are days to remember

On birth and graduation and choosing the story you tell

A few nights ago, D and I watched a poignant movie about life and the way things can change when you find connection and love. The story moves back and forth between present day and the past, jumping from a family of three sitting in a diner to the way the couple met, the anticipation and disappointment of trying to conceive, and then the bright pink double lines, the rounding belly, and the labor and birth. While it was obvious neither actor had actually been through birth, both D and I were teary-eyed and a little sniffily as we watched the birth unfold on the screen in our living room. We squeezed each other’s hand a little tighter as the mama worked to bring her baby into this world in the most unexpected of environments—a convenience store bathroom. And then, all the exclamations of pain, the words of encouragement, the commotion of labor, stilled when that tiny, most perfect human slipped the rest of the way out of her mama’s vagina and into the bright, fluorescent lights of the world. The papa catching her, holding her so tenderly and wrapping that little one in a towel and placing her gently on her mama’s chest. The gentle sounds, the quiet declarations of awe and wonder that this new life had emerged, was here, breathing, eyes closed, settling on her mama’s chest, all resonated with a place deep inside me. A place with few words mediating the space between memory and feeling. A place that has existed within mamas across time and species—the innate connection between a mother and her young, a connection that instills the desire to nurture and protect, to mother, to raise up.

I can tell you each of my birth stories with great detail—how many times we went back and forth to the birth center while waiting for Z’s arrival, that the car ride was unbearably painful for contractions, how warm it was the day before L arrived and my long walk around the neighborhood that afternoon to coax him into arrival, the way I knew M would arrive in the next 24 hours as we sat eating dinner with our two little boys and my sister. My worry that something was wrong when my water broke as we walked down the hallway to the elevator that would take us up to labor and delivery. The way the midwife quieted me, centered me, when I came in to hospital in active labor with L, assuring me that I didn’t have to work so hard, that my body and my baby would work together to birth him. And while I know I was in a lot of pain, I remember vaguely the way a contraction would build up and crest like a wave rolling over and crashing on the shore, I don’t have any visceral memories of that pain. Not the way I can feel the heartache when I arrived to pick Z up at school and I knew something awful had happened. Not the way I can access easily the memory of the searing pain of those wasp stings last fall. Or even the memory I have of hip pain when I ran up a steep hill three years ago that ended my daily running. While I know that the physical work of birthing my babies caused pain unlike any other I have experienced, I have no physical memory of it. I am quite sure it is more imprinted on D’s memory than it is on mine.

Of course, this is all by design. Who would have more than one child if they remembered with acuity the way it felt to birth that child? What is imprinted instead is that moment of connection, that quiet reverence when you hold this infant against your chest, see their perfect little fingers, their eyes so deeply blue with unblemished sclera, that cry—finely tuned to evoke a response from their mama, the amazement and wonder of it all. These memories, so vivid, so deeply wired, so easily touched even by a simulation of birth on a movie. The connection between me and these tiny beings so pure, so uncomplicated, so absolute.

I know that not all mothers feel this way. I know that not all births are such tender experiences. My experience is inextricably shaped by being able to choose if and when I wanted to become pregnant, bringing babies into a home that was safe and loving, having enough resources to feed and house and nurture these infants. My ability to fall completely in love with these tiny beings was something I knew in my bones because I had been loved that way, because I watched my parents love my younger siblings in that way. I know that some mothers, despite having similar circumstances of wanting a child and having the resources to provide for that child, do not feel an immediate bond. Sometimes that bond takes weeks or months to develop. Sometimes, it never fully develops. Some mothers are unable to provide for their babies and make the profound decision to give that infant to another family to love and nurture. Some mothers work constantly to provide everything they can for their child in a world that makes it hard to get by. I do not take it for granted that I have been able to offer my children so much because I, too, have so much. I know how to love without limits because I was raised in that kind of unbounded love. And that resource, more than any material one, is truly without measure, without price.

It is graduation week in my little city. Friends are feeling all the feels—the pride, the anticipation, the delight, the disbelief that the young adult in front of them has so quickly sprouted from that little infant, and oh, the joy in all the ceremonies and events designed to celebrate this milestone. For some, it is the second or third child to reach graduation. For others, it is the first, sometimes the only, young adult they are ushering into adulthood. And just as I love to hear birth stories, I love to bear witness to my friends’ experiences of birthing their child into young adulthood. To hear the small details of last-minute scrambles for attire other than sweatpants and jeans, the swelling of pride when your student is recognized for all their diligence and hard work, the delight in the beautiful pageantry of prom—each young person stunning in their elegant attire, radiant in the glow of youth and promise. The way the tears and struggle, the icy silences of adolescence, the light encouragement that became angry showdowns over homework or college essays or applying for summer jobs, the pushback and yelling over boundaries or curfews, the heartache over girlfriends or boyfriends or complicated friendships, the awkwardness and insecurity over not being included or intentionally excluded, all of these things recede into the background as you go through this week of ritual and celebration, honoring this transition from childhood into young adulthood.

It is easy to get distracted, bogged down by the hardships in our lives, our world. There are dozens of rabbit holes I could fall down and swirl around in worry and anxiety, some immediate and in my own life (L is not doing enough to prepare for college, my job is unstable and what will we do if I lose it, is M’s moodiness typical adolescent hormonal shifts or something more concerning) and always, the state of our country, the world we are leaving our children (I won’t even list out those things…). But why jump down into the darkness of the earth when the world above ground is so full of beauty and light and color? When the trees are resplendent with blossom and leaf, verdant and glistening with sunlight. When the peonies have burst into bloom, the oven bird is calling out with her repeated ringing, the cedar waxwing is answering back with her trilling whistle, and the little black capped chickadee warbles out her familiar call. When the lady slipper, delicate and exotic, continues to display her striped bloom. When my house is full with my three young men, their voices no longer eager and high, but more deliberate and deep. When Z’s friends come over and watch weird movies, friendships that have endured since they were young, awkward middle schoolers, friendships that are comfortable and easy, that fill our evenings with their laughter and gentle ribbing of each other. When L is nursing a broken heart and working it out through learning breakup songs on his guitar that he sings loudly, generally late at night. When M is honing his craft and will earn money this summer as an artist. When I can take comfort in resting my head against the same shoulder that has been there to support me for more than 30 years, squeeze the same hand I held tightly to when we stood in front of our family and friends and said, yes, we will walk through the valleys and summits and all the in betweens of life. Together. When it feels like we are heading up toward the summit instead of down into a valley.

We are the authors of our story. We are the ones who create our narrative. We decide which plot lines to follow, which ones to leave untold. Today, I choose to tell a story of birth and rebirth, celebration and wonder, connection and reconnection, love and joy. I hope you, too, can find these stories in your life, can balance the loss and grief, heartache and loneliness, endings and sadness with the beauty that is all around you.

Because it is there, in the rising of the morning sun, the delicate blossom of the columbine, the bursting brilliance of the poppy, the smile on your child’s face, the pride you feel in your child’s growth and successes, the understanding of a friend, the steadiness of love.

These are days you'll remember
When May is rushing over you with desire
To be part of the miracles you see in every hour
You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky
It's true that you
Are touched by something
That will grow and bloom in you.

Robert Buck/Jerome Augustyniak / Natalie A Merchant

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

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