Spring... and a Baby - reprise

A wrought iron mother wren with a baby at her feet perches on graceful vines encircling a fluted glass vessel. The little vase struck a chord with my mother, and she gave it to me when Tucker was born. Mom loves lilies of the valley, and it was early May, so she filled the vase with a few sprigs from her garden before coming to help out with my new baby. 

 

It was springtime, and the earth had prepared for Tucker’s arrival. In the fuzzy greening of trees, the sunshine glow of forsythia, and the pink clouds of magnolia emerging from gray wood seemingly dead only last week, God was saying – as surely as if He’d hugged me – “Be happy.” And I was. 

 

Lavender lilacs lent their fragrance to the warm, gentle breeze. Tiny sparrows that had passed March in mute pecking swung proudly on twigs and composed melodies. Brown-headed cowbirds chortled bubbling liquid songs, and mourning doves cooed like a mother’s soft soothing. Warblers called from the treetops with trills, chirps, and cheeps. Brother Wind, the woods’ winter alto voice, harmonized with the soprano songbird chorus. Mates were sought.  Nests were readied. My baby was on the way too.  

 

I’d been a poster child for pregnancy, and perhaps, a vexation to my fellow students in Lamaze class. Where Tucker curled tight in the womb, front and center, other mothers waddled cumbersome, expanding on all sides. I felt great, gained little weight, and was eager for birth-day to come.

 

Labor, for me, was a glorious crusade – a good one, without prisoners or weapons. There was blood and pain, but the prize was a baby, and I was well trained for the fight. With the current preference for epidurals, Lamaze has lost favor, but in the early eighties, it was the way to go. It was an invaluable education, and when the contractions began, the pain held no fear. I knew the significance of the sensations at each stage and was ready with a corresponding strategy. As the contractions grew stronger, I pictured my little one, struggling along with me.  Soon we would meet, face to face. 

 

I’d not been aware that I had expectations as far as the sex of the child. Yet, as a girl from a family of girls, I must have felt that this little traveler, so familiar, yet not, would be female. When Doctor Hoffman, the welcoming committee, caught the baby and announced, “He’s a boy, and he’s perfect!” I was surprised.  I was also surprised that this son of a WASP mother was so definitively Italian. I didn’t recognize him as my under-the-heart-in-my-heart companion right away. 

 

He resembled his father, Dave, so thoroughly. Thick black hair was slicked back from his face. His battle down the birth canal showed in in puffy cheeks and pouches under his eyes, like Dave after a long commute. And like Dave, Aunty Cam, Colombo, and his great-grandfather Michael, the baby’s nose was pure Sylvestro, rounded and substantial. 

 

The name “Tucker” is not as unique in this new millennium, but in 1980, it was.  It was round on my tongue, soft as a baby’s kissable cheeks, and the “r” at the end was a cozy burr. There was pride and love in the very utterance of the name, bound as it was to this little boy. 

 

But oh, the fatigue following the eighteen-hour delivery! I had eaten only tea and toast since the contractions began, and after all that hard work – triumphant work! – I was beat. So after snuggles with Tucker, and stitches for me, the nurses spirited him away, and I fell asleep.  

 

At 4:00 AM, I woke in the dark, achingly lonely for my other part, the other heart that had beaten under mine for nine months. The yearning I felt for him was a new kind of pain, and I was keenly aware of the void in my body where once he had been. 

 

Now, he is forty-four, married with two children and living in Switzerland. On this day, the day of his birth, he seems terribly far away as I reminisce about our first meeting so many years ago.

 

When spring comes around with its fuzzy leaves and lilac scents, I can conjure up the feeling of that day when we awaited his birth. As the lilies of the valley push up through the soil, I bury my nose in the clusters of white bells. God is proclaiming, “Be happy,” and I am… but I wish I could hold that little bundle again. 

 

 

   

  

Waiting...

Oh, waiting is cruel. Whether it be for good or ill, for grades, test results, or a child’s Christmas morning extravaganza, waiting is agonizing.  And waiting for the birth of a baby?  Every month, phase, appointment, and scan holds it’s own particular excitement or worry.

Three years ago, Dave and I snow-shoed a slushy trail beyond the lake at Mohonk Mountain House while yearning for word from Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital where Tucker’s wife, Lisa, was in labor.  Later that afternoon, we skated in circles to tinny Yuletide tunes at the Mohonk rink while yearning for word.  The next day, we stood, yearning for word, holding our plates in the dining hall breakfast buffet as a portly chef flipped our omelets. Kind people we’d met on the trail, at the rink, and at dinner the night before asked, “Any word on the baby?” 

I’d never had to worry my way through a delivery, and as the disquieting number of our “nothing yet” responses mounted, anticipation had turned to concern.  Lisa’s labor was long and perilous… but gratefully, ended with the hoped-for results.  Lisa would recover and heal, and baby Paul has grown into a captivating little boy. He is smart, curious, and funny, but I admired Lisa’s courage in facing another delivery when we learned she was pregnant again.

Mom was still lucid when Tucker whispered that news to her in late February, a secret kept from the rest of us for months longer.  At Mom’s memorial service in March, Casey privately told her brother about her own pregnancy, again, a secret from the rest of us for a while, just to be sure. Casey says she made Mom promise, during those final days in Muirfield, to be a guardian for whatever little ones she might spawn, and Mom said, “I’ll watch over all of you…” So, in addition to the image I hold in my heart of a Heavenly Couch reunion, hoping that my belief and reality intersect there, I am counting on Mom to fulfill her promise.

Due to her previous birth experience, Lisa scheduled a C-section in October, and Lexi was born without the hand-wringing anguish of Round One.  Three years ago, it was weeks before Lisa felt strong and well. “I feel I missed out on Paul’s infancy,” she says.  When Dave and I went to visit two weeks after Lexi’s birth, Lisa insisted on making dinner. To our offers of help and our wish that she relax, she said, “I enjoy this.” She is thrilled and surprised to feel like herself, and have her beautiful baby girl.

Casey planned on a natural birth.  She was in good shape, took hypno-birthing classes, did a lot of reading, and hoped that genetics would play a role: both of my deliveries were smooth.  Sure, my contractions had been painful, but I could imagine worse… and those early weeks when a new infant was in my arms? I picture them now as fatiguing, but surrounded by a blissful, golden halo.  “Mom, I think you’ve forgotten a lot,” Tucker tells me often.  “This is really hard.” 

Possibly. In general, I’ve forgotten a lot.

As a Pilates instructor, Casey is in tune with her body, and as her mother, I am in tune with her. As her pregnancy progressed, her ribs felt bruised and painful.  I don’t remember feeling anything like that when I was pregnant.  Should I worry?  When her baby kicked, it hurt.  I don’t remember anything like that.  Should I worry?  During the last month, Casey’s fingers went numb.  Whoa.  Weird. I definitely don’t remember anything like that.  Should I worry? 

Truth is, I’ve worried a lot. When I was young and my stomach was ballooning, I felt only joy at the baby rolls and kicks within me. Armed with Lamaze training and copious reading, I was raring to go and ready for the birth battle. I wasn’t worried at all.  But it’s been a different thing entirely having our two precious girls facing that miraculous, but arduous, journey to produce life.

My daughter’s due date came and went. With her stomach huge and ungainly, sitting, lying down, and walking were difficult, leaving few positional options.  Throughout her pregnancy, in hearing of others’ scheduled inductions, she’d been resolute in stating, “No one’s taking this biscuit until it’s fully baked!”  But as nights passed, sleepless and uncomfortable, she conceded that a scheduled birth had some appeal.  

For several days, she experienced abdominal tightenings and cramps… were they contractions?  At 1:00 AM, in the early hours of Thanksgiving Day, she was pretty sure they were.  As they became regular and increased in intensity, she was certain. 

Then, after six hours, they stalled.  Argh.

Our nephew, Trevor, and his wife, Lisa, had offered to host Thanksgiving this year since Dave and I had no idea what that day would hold.  When Casey’s husband, PJ, texted us with news of Casey’s progress, and then, the lack thereof, we wondered what we should do: make merry with the Connecticut Sylvestro clan while our daughter faced the biggest physical challenge of her life, or stay home to worry and stew?  

  

It was tempting to text PJ every ten minutes.  What restraint we showed in sticking to an every-two-hours communication!  Without distraction, we doubted we could hold to that, so we picked up Dave’s mother and headed to Trevor and Lisa’s. 

It was a lovely afternoon of delicious traditional foods… and full family focus on getting that baby out. Dave decided to make a video to cheer Casey on, and Steve, his brother, composed lyrics to the tune of Happy Birthday.  We sang with loving gusto, "Have your baby right now.  Have your baby right now. Don't wait til tomorrow... Have your baby right now!"

Throughout dinner, we texted PJ periodically… hesitantly, guiltily… knowing he was busy supporting our girl.  By late afternoon, Colleen, the doula or birth coach, had arrived and was helping Casey (and PJ) stay calm.  Where was a doula to keep me calm?  I definitely could’ve used one.  Finally, at 9:30, PJ texted that they were on their way to the hospital.  Thank God!  That gave us license to go too, and at least we could be near our girl in her efforts.  The baby would be here soon!

Not so fast…

PJ’s mother, Janine, who loves our kids as much as we do, was just the right company as the three of us settled in for what would be a very long night. Initially, we shared our wait with an expectant father and his two remarkably well-behaved sons, a toddler and a child of about five. A big-screen TV ran a series of Christmas movies and religious shows, but the sound was on mute and we couldn’t drum up enough interest to figure out how to turn up the volume or change the channel. 

Every few hours, I allowed myself a walk down the hall to Labor and Delivery to check on my daughter. She was amazing in her bravery and concentration on the work to be done.  Dressed in a white johnny bedecked with blue diamonds, and connected to an assortment of wires and monitors, she breathed slowly through contractions.  PJ sat by her side holding her hand, and the doula stood at her head, stroking her hair. 

It was hard to feel so out of place as I remained by the door, my unhelpful hands clasped humbly before me, as Colleen, a woman I’d barely met, stroked my daughter’s hair while murmuring encouragement and tips. I wanted to stroke Casey’s hair and murmur encouragement… but I didn’t know the tips, or the exercises, or what those lines on the monitors meant, and the doula did.  

What I did know was that the smiley face on the white board was still on the circle that indicated 4 centimeters dilation. Despite 30 hours of labor, that smiley face had not moved. How I longed for an eraser to rid the board of that simpering sign of stalled progress. How could Casey bear to look at it?

After each visit, I trudged back to our post with my discouraging report.  Dave and Janine would look up hopefully at my entrance, and then shake their heads at my words. Dave would return to his crossword puzzle, Janine to scrolling on her phone.  Wisely, I’d brought Robert McCammon’s “Boy’s Life,” a riveting story of a boy’s encounter with mystery, bigotry, and the supernatural. I hoped an escape with twelve year-old Cory might help pass the hours of waiting. 

The young father and his sons received word of a birth around 3:00 AM and left us.  They were soon replaced by two grandmothers, a daughter and grand-daughter who settled in to wait for their loved one to produce. As the hours passed, their numbers grew as more siblings and cousins came to check on progress.  In the muted light of early morning, we all wished each other luck, shared cheese and crackers, and were comforted in waiting together.  

Poor Casey!  Several times, PJ emerged to tell us she was fine, but still no change in that 4 cm dilation. 

The sun rose, and our friend Joanie arrived with pumpkin bread, chocolate covered espresso beans, pomegranate beverages, and cozy socks and fleeces.  Sustenance and warmth!  Cheese and crackers go only so far.  Missy and Paul Sr., PJ’s dad and his girlfriend, joined us, along with a few more cousins of the other family-in-waiting.  They were feeling the strain of the passing hours and were aghast to hear how long Casey had been in labor. 

When I snuck down for another glimpse of my girl, that infernal smiley face still grinned from the 4 cm circle.  The doctor, the doula, and Casey had agreed it was time to nudge things forward with an epidural and Pitocin drip.  Casey was exhausted and resigned, “I’m okay with it, Mom.  Don’t worry.” 

I was worried, but not about the epidural. I just wanted the baby out, and my girl to be okay.  And finally, the 4 cm smiley face was erased, and a large pink heart filled the 8 cm circle. Thank God.  

The family of grandmothers and cousins had received their happy news and took turns visiting their loved one and her baby.  Joanie gave us hugs, sent Casey her best wishes, and headed home. Another expectant dad with his siblings and, again, two remarkably well-behaved small boys, claimed the remaining seats in the room. What wizardry had been used in raising the children that waited with us? And when was our new child going to make her appearance?  

Around 5:30 PM, I returned to Labor and Delivery in time to see a bustle of activity around my daughter. A blue cap placed on her head. A doctor explaining medications and risks.  A nurse untangling another IV line and preparing to insert it. PJ standing stock still with his back to me, holding Casey’s hand, unable to look away from his wife. Casey, weepy, her lip trembling, saying to me, “They’re going to do a C-section. Colleen will fill you in. I’m okay; I just can’t talk about it right now.”  And she turned away to inhale, exhale, inhale, and exhale. 

Colleen was packing up her things in the corner.  “The baby’s not responding,” she said.  “But it’s going to be fine.  I’ll be down to explain everything to you in a minute.”

“The baby’s not responding?” Omigod. 

Dave had left the hospital to feed and walk Casey and PJ’s dog, so it was Janine who saw my stricken expression and rushed to hug me.  “They’re doing a C-section.  The baby’s not responding, but they assured me it would be okay,” I stammered.  Paul Sr. and Missy didn’t speak. Janine and I held each other and sobbed.  It would be okay.  Casey would be okay.  Her little girl would be okay.  Of course they would. Thank God for C-sections.  But, I knew Casey was scared and distressed. And what about the “not responding” part?  

“Mom, you promised…” I prayed to my mother and father, to God and my grandparents… to anyone who might be listening and could intercede.  Who knows how the Other Side operates?  

Colleen entered the room, pulled up her rolling bag, and parked on the seat next to me. “The baby’s heart rate and blood pressure are fine, but she’s not moving or reacting to stimulation.”

 “Then how do you know she’s all right?” I asked, my eyes searching Colleen’s for truth. 

“They’d be running around like crazy if it were an emergency and they’re not.  It was measured and methodical in there.  It’s going to be fine.  Casey’s 9 cm dilated, and the doctor said she might be able to get the job done naturally, but mom and baby have had enough.  They’re both exhausted.” 

Dave returned with wine and lemon shrimp risotto, and I filled him in on the C-section. He took a deep breath and said he was relieved. "Actually, I've been hoping they'd make that decision. It's been too long."   

Elias, an expectant father whose wife was 7 cm dilated, took a break from the labor room and joined us for a glass of wine.  The other families had left hours ago.   How long do Caesareans usually take?

Finally… finally!  PJ strode into our midst.  “She’s here!  Casey’s in repair, but doing fine.  You can see her soon.  The baby’s beautiful.”  He held out his phone and swiped through pictures of an adorable chubby baby with PJ’s cheeks and Casey’s mouth… and a full head of dark hair.  

Welcome Eleanor Jean West!

To see the video composed Thanksgiving Day to cheer Casey on, click below and follow the link:

Sylvestro Thanksgiving Song for Casey

Strong Girls

“Mom, I’m waddling,” Casey’s voice on the phone was rueful but good-humored.

“Hate to tell you, Sweetie, you’ve been waddling for days,” I replied.

With only weeks before her due date, Casey is short of breath, uncomfortable, sleep-deprived, and… waddling.   She has kept photo documentation throughout her pregnancy and recently invited me to join a shared album, “Belly Chronicles.”  My Lord! The female body is astonishing in it’s ability to stretch to encompass new life.  Two weeks ago, the doctor estimated her unborn child’s weight at 8 pounds, 3 ounces.  “I just want to meet her,” Casey said with plaintive yearning while stroking her distended stomach.   

  

Like bins of photos scanned into one thin, portable disc, this year  - with all its richness, sorrow, joy, and anticipation – feels condensed.  It wasn’t long ago, mid-January, when Mom confessed to feeling punky.  Within a few days, I headed to Philadelphia with my friend, Joan, to visit Mom and attend the Women’s March with my sisters. In the wake of Mom’s diagnosis, the events, exuberance, and power of the march were overshadowed as Mom approached her death with grace and courage. 

In the weeks that followed, we stepped out of life’s habitual stream into the cocoon of Muirfield. After Mom passed in March, the three hours from Connecticut to Pennsylvania became so routine they seemed to shrink to an easy commute as I drove back and forth to help my sisters sort through the furniture and keepsakes of generations that had come to rest in Mom’s house. During the summer, July held a trip west for us; August, time in Weekapaug.  Since then, again, we have been… waiting.  Gratefully, this wait has been one of joy as we have been waiting for… babies!

Yes, babies… plural. Casey is not the only one expecting. Long before telling the rest of us, Tucker and Lisa whispered news of Lisa’s pregnancy to Mom during their last visit with her at Muirfield.  And in watching our two girls prepare for the births of their babies, in watching them swell, nest, worry, weather discomforts, and yes, waddle, I’ve been reminded of a sign I particularly loved at the Women’s March: “Here’s to strong women.  May we know them; may we be them; may we raise them.” 

Two weeks ago, Tucker called with news of Lexi’s birth. His voice was happy, loving, and relieved as he reported that Lisa was tired but doing well after delivering their chubby, baby girl. 

Lisa’s mother, Jan, had flown in the week before, and Dave and I headed north after getting the call. Francie and Matt were in Boston visiting their son Campbell, so they joined us at the hospital as well. Within ten months, two hospitals have been our haven – for such very different reasons - allowing us to retreat and reduce our circle of concern to what matters most: those we love and their well-being. 

Our grandson, Paul, who’s not even three, seems such a big boy now that he has a baby sister.  When first he held little Lexi, he gently touched her fingers and asked, “She has such tiny… um, what do we call these?”

“Knuckles,” said Tucker.

“Oh. Knuckles…” repeated Paul.  And then, “Okay, I’m done,” he said, eager to have Tucker pick up the baby so he could scramble to the floor and play with his cars.

But, yes.  Aren’t those tiny knuckles a wonder?  I’ve held many babies, and still those tiny hands, fingers, and feet amaze me.  I could gaze for hours at Lexi’s tiny nose and tiny mouth, breathing deep her sweet baby scent, regretting only that while nestled in the crook of my arm she is not close enough to nuzzle her soft, kissable cheeks.  And where now, she sleeps and flops loosely over my shoulder, in six months, she’ll be smiling and sitting up on her own. So many surprises, miracles, and potential nestle within this brand-new human. 

When my kids were little, I wished desperately that their happiness and security would last forever. Maybe it’s because I’m older and know more, but life seems tougher than it was then.  Like the sign said, these girls will have to be strong.

And their parents are on it.

Before long, Tucker and Lisa will start reading to their daughter.  Paul has several shelves of books, and his sister will probably love “Curious George,” “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” and “Click, Clack, Moo” as much as her brother does.  Soon, tales of Disney princesses and adventurers will join those selections.  A neighbor has already added “Baby Feminists” to their library, so Lexi’s heroes might include Michele Obama, Malala, or Ruth Bader Ginsburg as well as Moana.  

While Casey and PJ’s baby has not yet arrived, her room is ready for her. It is adorable and inviting in violet and light gray, with elephant accents and a pink braided rug. Long before brushes were dipped in paint or the color palette for the room was chosen, Casey ordered two signs for the walls. One, a Shakespearean quote, reads, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”  The other promises, “Let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will move mountains.”