On the eighteenth birthday of my youngest child.
Today my youngest child turns 18.
That means (gulp) that I am the mother of 5 adults. Yikes!
But it seems like just a few short years ago that he was born. His eldest brother was half his present age then, with the others various ages in between (decently spaced I assure, you, gentle reader – I wasn’t that Catholic!)
In fact, I actually thought he might fall out in those last few days, but he was so small that my doctor wanted him to stay in until 40 weeks (Let’s just get it straight: human gestation is 10 months – do not listen to the misogynistic propaganda that it is 9 months! I think that idea was first promulgated by men centuries ago, while trying to hide the fact that there’d been some nooky before the nuptials). However generally doctors who are doing a caesarean section (yeah like disection – section) will take out the wee bairns at about 38 weeks to ensure there is no premature labour, especially if the mother and baby’s health would be affected by early labour, as in our case.)
He didn’t of course (fall out I mean) and on a dark autumn morning, my sister fetched me; and I kissed the other sprogs goodbye for a few days, leaving them with Lego that ‘the baby bought for them’ (How much we lie to our children!) and their grandparents, who supervised them until Brigid returned to spend the next few nights.
At the Milnerton Medi-clinic, it was business as usual for me – I had of course done it all four times already, but Brigid marvelled at each stage (and naturally told me from time to time to keep my voice down.) To hear her tell the story of Liam’s birth it’s hard to remember that I was there at all, because she was so wrapped up in the glory of seeing that new life emerge from his cocoon, all swamp-thing and goo, only to hear him cry lustily (as he has done everything in his entire life since) and be placed next to us all clean and sweet.
I say it all with no disrespect because I loved it that she was there to see him and while she tells it as if I were merely a part of the operating theatre machines, in reality, she was checking up on me every few seconds with regular: “are you alright?’
‘Well of course, I’m only having my innards sliced open (‘sectioned’ remember) and I can even feel all the pulling in a kind of rubbery way – just peachy, Brig!’ (I can understand why she’s blanked me out of her story.)
Liam was such a bonny baby, always smiling and so easy. His siblings all had gastro while we were in the clinic and poor Brigid was repaid for her kindness in babysitting them during this time by being vomited on and having to comb the detritus out of both her and Caitlin’s hair. Sean was the only one who didn’t catch the bug, and gleefully announced that he would be the only one able to hold their new brother. Fortunately I disappointed him by rushing the newborn to his beautiful wicker crib and closing the door on all the children, because no sooner had Brigid departed to be ill herself in blissful peace in her own apartment, than Sean became violently ill himself. So Liam’s first night home, I spent cleaning up after my little big boy, as well as feeding his baby brother.
On the Sunday, Brigid came to fetch the children for mass and left Liam and me behind. I took that opportunity to change the outside light bulb by climbing up on a chair on the patio (I was a bit of a bangbroek and didn’t want it to be creepy outside when I was alone with the children.) Of course, having climbed up on the chair, I realised that I still had to get down again – a bit tricky on a Caesar wound. I didn’t dare tell Big Sister Brigid about this when I needed to go back into hospital with Liam overnight with a bladder infection, because she’d have told me that was why and had no sympathy. At least we had a porch light when I returned 24 hours later and could finally enjoy my beloved five children. And hold them and cherish them.
And now I am amazed that it is 18 years later! I’d say it’s safe to finally stop living in dread that something would happen to them but that’s not true – it did, many times including nearly losing Liam to an attempted kidnapping two years ago. I’d like to say that I can stop worrying now that they are all grown up. But the truth is I don’t think you ever stop breathing in fear for your children with every breath you take. Or ever stop exhaling fire with every escapade they entangle themselves in.
These last eighteen years have been eventful to say the least. I do hope the next will be slightly more peaceful. I plan now to live long enough to be a real problem to them all.
It seems that won’t be too hard. They already speak about me in troubled tones, as if I am not present in the room…. So perhaps they’ll put me in a home soon and bring me cute babies to play with on Sundays. Either way I relish the anticipation of the next chapter of the motherhood book.
I may have given them life, but really they gave me the reason to live mine.