Yesterday was my son’s first birthday and we had a party. In preparation for the fête, I questioned the wisdom of having one, but in the end I was glad we did.
A year ago, at 42 weeks and a day, I hit a low point in my pregnancy and birth moments as the doctors were trying to …. well the literal translation would be “unclench” the cervix to allow the Petit Prince to make his appearance. I had spent the day and night, and then day in the hospital to that end and, just like Rachel in Friends, watched as my roommate came in with contractions, went out, and came back in with a baby, while I was sitting around with nada. After the second day waiting in the labor room, the nurses sent me to my room to eat and take a shower before deciding what to do with me and my high security portal.
The contractions were starting as I made my way through the main public lobby in my open hospital gown, holding my own IV up high to avoid blood loss since the maternity ward couldn’t spare a rolling IV pole (are we in civilization here?), only to get into the tiny elevator where my husband wisecracked that my water would break and I would short-circuit the elevator and have to give birth standing up (don’t make me laugh!!), only to find my roommate surrounded by her baby and every known relative popping champagne in our room. Well, after a good cry of humiliation, I had to admit that the walk and shower did me some good because Petit Prince was born a couple of hours later.
When I took the kids to the french pediatrician on Friday because all of them were sick with the baby worst of all, I asked her if my little prince could receive his friends on Sunday for his first birthday party. She chuckled and retorted, “you’re throwing a birthday party for his first birthday?” I mumbled sheepishly something about it being for the pictures, and more for the parents anyway.
But I did, once again, question the wisdom of the party when Petit Prince was really not well and needing my constant attention, my husband was preaching at church that morning and couldn’t be there to help me, and I was madly trying to clean and bake without neglecting the sick birthday boy. I was questioning the wisdom as I dropped a carton of eggs on the floor, and broke my electric mixer with a cake and frosting still to prepare, and when I broke (yes, this actually happened) the electric cuisinart that was supposed to be blending my re-fried beans for the dip. And I questioned the wisdom when, in my panicked state, I handed a dish cloth to my mother in law, and to my bemused father-in-law, the vacuum cleaner, and asked them to help. Yes, I know, my cheeks burn in shame and I promised it would never happen again, but my beau-pere still visits with trepidation.
But when all was said and done, it was a great party. So I shocked the French with such delicacies as rice krispie treats (isn’t this supposed to be for breakfast?), and 5-layer bean dip (well, we won’t need to eat dinner tonight, or lunch tomorrow for that matter) and the good ole round of brie covered with red jam and baked in pie crust (what have you done with our brie?). The French take their cheese very seriously.
But as we watched our children mill around on all fours, making early friendships, exploring their world, I thought, “Yes, yes. We’re going to celebrate your first birthdays, your joys and your victories, your friendships, your life. We’re going to celebrate you.”
