As the youngest of four kids, I grew up resenting how little my parents remembered about my birth and early childhood. I expressed this resentment so effectively in my teenage years that my mom finally strung together as many bits of memorabilia she could muster to make me a baby book for my sixteenth birthday. It was probably mostly made up because they didn’t remember much of the details but it was a nice gesture. I still felt like I was a little less loved than my oldest sister in particular who had every lock of hair, childhood project and early developmental stage chronicled and captured in albums. But now that I have just two children myself, I can see how this happens. I had the grandest intentions of memory boxes and baby books, journals and albums for each of the boys and while I keep a lot of this stuff, the hospital bracelets, doctor’s office weight charts and coloring projects, I have yet to put a single collection of any sort together. And now I worry that I will have no idea why a certain drawing was important at all when I go back to paste it into an album.
So far the boys don’t seem to mind. And the one consolation I have, and it’s a good one, is that this blog in some form or other has existed since the time we first learned that we were pregnant, then that we were not and then from the earliest thoughts of Primo, through his birth and Segundo’s too and on through to today, the day Primo turns four.
So even though we will probably never make him a baby book (Primo, if you are reading this in the future you could probably still guilt me into making you one-it worked for me) we are memorializing this day, this fourth birthday. And even better than a baby book, we’ve posted a bit of writing or a photograph for all the days around this day, all the days that fill in the story between the firsts, the special occasions and the photo ops. Lucky you Primo. Your parents blogged.
But for celebration’s sake, I did want to do a little remembering about the day that we are celebrating. About the day we arrived at the hospital at 6am to be induced, my hair done and makeup on because somehow feeling presentable was important; the day when my mom called in sick and my dad grinned unwaveringly and ran laps in the hallway when the nurses kicked him out. The day when I thought I would go natural, no medication but then found as the waves of induced contractions gained in frequency that I wouldn’t be able to make it; the day I got a lovely epidural that I felt no guilt over. The day Primo came out of me to my mom’s cheers, James’ sobbing and my general awe over the entire process. Ready or not we were parents. Four years later, we’ve had more practice but perhaps are no better at it than we were that day that everything changed, that day Primo showed up and rocked our world. Happy Birthday Buddy.