Sixty-seven years ago tomorrow I gave birth to my first child.
It was then called “natural childbirth.”
I conceived the baby when we were living in New York city (I was happily a copywriter at the great department store, Lord & Taylor). An old friend of my husband’s had a good friend who’d written a book about the brand new notion of giving birth without a spinal block, a saddle block, an anything block, just breathing deeply, thinking great big beautiful thoughts, not panicking, letting the babe slide out. It pretty much went that way and I was, I must say, out of proportion proud of myself.
It was a boy.
Now that boy’s hair is gray. Gray on top and a muffle of a thick gray beard.
He is a dear. An intelligent, talented, caring man.
An old soul.
He gave me two glorious granddaughters. And much more to be proud of.
But sixty-seven! That’s impossible!
In truth, his life hasn’t gone the way I imagined.
It’s taken a few lurches.
But by the time you’ve orbited the sun sixty-seven times, whose life hasn’t?
Lord knows mine has.
It’s just that images in my mind’s eye keep going back to the blond three-year-old in a Burberry trench coat his godmother gave him…the lanky star Little League pitcher on the mound…the gorgeous Bar Mitzvah boy chanting through the house…
Do most mothers cherish memories of their children B.W.G.T. (Before the World Gets Them)?
Anyway, Happy Birthday, dearest David!
I am grateful for and thank you for sixty-seven loving happy years.