Happy birthday, little man!
On a crisp, sunny spring day almost 20 years ago, I went to the pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. I wasn’t expecting to be expecting; in fact, I had just undergone a long-anticipated vein strip that I had planned to have after I stopped birthing babies. I thought I was done: we had two beautiful girls and we were at a comfortable parity of two wranglers for two kids. Then there was the issue of finances: a family of four making yearly treks from France to see family in California was still doable on a teacher’s salary; however, number 5 was going to to make this a challenge. Finally, there was the age issue: even if having babies at 40 has been a tradition in my family, I couldn’t see myself as an even older mother than I was with my two girls.
I’m pretty type-A, and another baby wasn’t in the playbook. I had just stopped breastfeeding baby #2, and was spending a lot of time next to her crib lulling her to sleep. I was teaching full-time and was starting to get back into jogging, desperate to work off the blubber from the last pregnancy. So with all of this, I figured being two weeks late could only be attributed to those wonky cycles leading to menopause. My husband and I put our all into conceiving babies #1 and #2, but for this one, we weren’t really trying. I couldn’t fathom myself getting knocked up so easily. But there I was, staring in disbelief at my positive Clear Blue Easy. I guess God, fate or the cosmos had other plans. This baby was meant to come into our lives.
An hour later, I chucked the test at my husband when I picked him up for lunch with a slightly sarcastic “Here you go, superman!” I felt pride and panic at the same time. Minutes later, I exclaimed, “We’ll call him Jesus!” (pronounced “Hay-soose” here in France), because I was certain he was immaculately conceived. Later you’ll see the irony in what I said.
I never wanted to know the sex of our babies; I think knowing in advance kills the excitement of pregnancy. It’s like waiting for a dinner guest and showing him his seat. The only thing I wanted to know was if the baby was healthy. I love that feeling of anticipation, which is why I preferred the minor inconvenience of not being able to select pink or blue while I was expecting. In any case, I was as prepared for #3 as I was for the other two: I had my list of “Franco-American” names for boys and girls and a neutrally-decorated baby room (fresh from his sister). All I needed were a few one-sex-fits-all newborn sleepers as I had just given away what I had.
However, the hypocrite in me didn’t keep me from guessing, and my hunch was that it was going to be a boy (as deducted from his second sonogram). And while I joked about calling him “Hey-soose”, I would never have imagined myself strapped to a fetal monitor on Jesus’ birthday, a full month before the due date. I was having issues with low-platelet numbers throughout my third trimester. While I felt fine enough to go on “one last” road trip to spend Christmas with my in-laws in the Jura mountains, my latest test results said otherwise. I got an urgent call from my midwife telling me to report to the nearest hospital. The hospital in St Claude was one of the bleakest places I’ve ever visited- a dingy grey building surrounded by diesel-soiled snow. Walking past the patients in robes smoking in front of the building, I said to myself, “Please, not here.” Luckily, I had stabilized and was given the green light to head home.
It wasn’t long after we got back home that I had another blood test, and another urgent call, this time on December 31st. I was three weeks early and no worse for wear, so I figured this baby was ready for the world. I won’t lie: I was also happy about the tax breaks and early preschool enrollment by having this baby before Jan 1st. But most of all, I was impatient to see the newest member of our family. So off I went with my small overnight bag to the Sainte Croix maternity hospital a block away from our home.
Being induced three weeks before the due date made for a quick delivery: baby Alexandre popped out like a bungee-cord jumper. I was ecstatic to have a boy. He was a wee thing: 2.7 kg (5lbs, 15oz), about the same as me when I was born. He was a good eater and sleeper, and quickly caught up on the growth chart.
Even as a tiny guy, Alex managed to have a tough look about him, with his bald head and intense eyes. Once we took him to a restaurant that had a big, bald security guard at the door. I put Alex in his arms for a picture, and the whole restaurant busted up. His hair didn’t grow in until he was well over 18 months, and his eyebrows didn’t fill in until even later. He had a fine duvet of light blond hair that has nothing to do with the lustrous dark brown curls and thick, arched eyebrows that he has now.
Alex’s pre-school teachers noticed vision problems and advised us to take him to an ophtalmologist. I have to admit that while wearing glasses would be an extra burden for Alex, I was excited about his new look. When he got fitted for his first pair of round red glasses, I beamed. He rocks glasses, whether he chooses Ray-Bans or Harry Potter-inspired wire frames.
Alex was about 5 weeks old, when lying on the bed, he started grooving to some funky music I had playing. I knew then he had the beat. I’d dance with him at the free summer concerts we attended in California, his little body twisting and turning in my arms. I enrolled him for percussions training at the Conservatory, and while it was hard for him and he eventually quit, he did let that seed grow. He later joined his father with a local orchestra for a couple of years, standing out as one of its youngest musicians. He has now blossomed into pretty darned good rapper.
Our tenth wedding anniversary came up when Alex was nearly 3 months old. The timing was perfect: it fell right during school break (my husband teaches as well), so we decided to go for a Mommy-Daddy-baby spa holiday. While I have fond memories of giving sweet almond oil massages to Alex, I now regret having taken him for the MMR vaccine that was required for that trip. Had we waited a few months longer, perhaps he would have tolerated the jolt to his immune system better. A few months later he started suffering from terrible eczema, which still plagues him to his day. I can complain about the hundreds, if not thousands, of euros spent on creams, oils, special bedding, soaps, naturopaths, homeopaths, etc, but the real heart-breaker was to see the physical and emotional turmoil he went through all the way through high-school. In hindsight, I’d carefully study the package insert of whatever is injected into my children.
That said, trauma also forges character. Gabor Maté says that one’s wisdom is born from trauma. My son’s trauma came to a head this year, just a few weeks short of his high school exams. He was not motivated, he was not happy and he was not sure to be graduating. The lockdowns and mask-wearing took a toll on everyone, but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back: Alex was worn down from the mask wearing. And when he seemed like he was about to crack, family and friends alike put their arms around him and showed him how much he was loved. This started a rapid healing process that has been nothing short of phenomenal. A once grumpy boy turned into a gracious, happy young man almost overnight. And yes, he passed his exams.
So what does a lycée graduate do with his diploma? With our blessing, Alex decided to take a gap year, getting off the habitrail and exploring what he wants to do later in life. If he had his druthers, at this writing, he would be a top chef, rapping masseuse body builder- all in one. I’m confident that my not-so-little man is going to be successful at whatever he endeavors to do.
