It's almost impossible for me to believe that my son is five years old today. I mean, how is it that you can remember a day -- or a few days -- so vividly, detail by beautiful detail, only to find that those events occurred half a decade ago? Aidan is an extremely special little boy, even from the very beginning. In the fall of 2001 (Oct. 7, to be exact) I miscarried our first baby, an event that was incredibly traumatic for me (a story for another time). We knew we wanted to have children, but I told Don that I couldn't just jump on the Baby Wagon again; I needed time (at least six months) to get myself back together before we tried again. Needless to say, when I took a pregnancy test on January 1, 2002 -- a mere 3 months after my miscarriage -- and discovered I was pregnant ... well, I was beyond shocked. This was not part of my plan; I wasn't sure I was ready; the emotions were wild. My parents were due to arrive later that day for a New Year's visit, so we gave them a gift that equally surprised them.I had a fabulous pregnancy -- in fact, I loved being pregnant. It was easy for me; I was able to stay physically fit, working out 4-5 times a week to some silly pregnancy videos; I felt great. We attended childbirth classes and were determined to have a natural childbirth, since the thought of an epidural freaked me out more than the thought of actually having a child (and believe me, the thought of that more often than not sent me over the edge). I was scared, yes -- I felt completely inadequate at the prospect of being a mother; I never transpired to be Babysitter of the Year so children -- and especially teeny babies -- were not in my comfort zone. I had my ups and downs, but overall I felt great.
We decided to find out the gender of our baby, but until that 20-week ultrasound visit, our bun-in-the-oven was called "Baby Junior." When we found out we were having a boy, we were ecstatic. Playing the Naming Game was great fun for me. We knew we wanted a family name in there, so we got it narrowed down to Aidan Garrett ("Garrett" after Don's great-grandfather) and Graham Henry ("Henry" after my dad and my maternal grandfather). My vote for Owen didn't get very far, and Don's vote for Matthias -- while cool -- made the discard pile as well. Those two front-runners stayed neck-and-neck until the very end when we decided to combine the two. I was not liking the fact that my family was not represented in any way in the first choice. Aidan was a winner, honoring my Irish heritage, but then the middle name and the last name would both side with Don. So ... figuring that our boy would always have my husband's last name, we opted for a middle name to honor my family. Phew! But it's funny -- even though we had a name picked out (and from that point on Don would frequently talk to my belly, using our baby's new name), I could not bring myself to use it. Instead kept calling him "Baby Junior," and it wasn't until my 8th month of pregnancy that I finally allowed myself to use the name we had chosen. My fear of another miscarriage was so great, the one cloud hanging over an otherwise wonderful pregnancy, that I guess I was protecting myself a bit by not allowing myself to connect to this little guy by using his name. Losing "Baby Junior" was a lot easier than losing Aidan Henry, I told myself, and it took me 8 months to get fully comfortable with the idea that everything was going to be OK.
Natural childbirth turned out to be a total bust. I went into labor at midnight and it was the most horrible experience of my life. My midwife told me to stay at home until I reached that certain equation of labor pains + timing. I figured, OK -- it'll just be a few hours and then I'll feel much more secure when I'm at the hospital. It was not to be. I remember laying in bed in our room darkened by the dreary, rainy Sunday, feeling outrageously sick and in hideous pain, practically on the point of delirium, but the labor pains were still too far apart to deem my hospital arrival worthy. I remember, in my fog, Don sitting next to me in bed, relishing the fact that he was able to call his replacement for the church services and thus gleefully starting his two-week paternity leave (and two-weeks away from the church). He had brought our little 10-inch portable TV into the room and was watching some church service on the tube. Finally, at 11:00 a.m. we decided to fudge the timing a bit and called the midwife, and we were off to the hospital.
Aidan didn't show his little face for another 6 hours, and for some insane reason I still held out for natural childbirth. I'm not sure at what hour my midwife said she as going to give me some drug via IV to calm me down a bit, and that sent me into La-La-Land which, for me, was almost worse than the pain. It was a horrible feeling, being half-conscious with complete lack of control. I had crazy dreams (or hallucinations?) about dead pansies in our garden, I mumbled embarrassingly stupid things yet I couldn't figure out why everyone as laughing. It was just an incredibly bizarre experience. Finally ... finally ... Aidan was born. He was stunningly beautiful.
He still is. I adore my boy. I love his compassion, his insightfulness, his big heart. I love his gigantic brown eyes and mile-long lashes, his tiny little mouth that purses when he's concentrating on something. I love his brilliance, his love for learning, his bubbling giggle. Sure, we have our (many) moments of struggle, but this little boy is one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Thank you, dear Lord, for knowing exactly what I needed. Thank you for blessing our home with this amazing little boy.
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