Lasso Brighter Futures, Let it Drag Us Both Behind

Today is my favorite anniversary. Nineteen years ago, I became. And he became. Two people were born that day, my only child, and his mother.  I still wish for another day with that baby. With the little boy. With the almost-man. I never dreamed that he would be my whole life.

I’ve never really been an adult without a child. At the time, it seemed like a monumental task, like my whole plan had been derailed, deferred. We all know now that the universe will make its own plans and all we can do is “lasso brighter futures, let it drag us both behind.”

I know birthdays are about the born, but as selfish as it seems today, I think they’re about those who bear too. About bringing out the very best in a very ordinary thing. A thing that happens every second of every day. 11:38am, April 13th 2005, my only baby was born. An ordinary moment, but never an ordinary boy, from the very moment he breathed.

The nurse held him up in the bright lights of the operating room, eyes wide open, not making a sound. His little forehead wrinkled up. I’ll never forget the way his eyes looked in that light, huge and intense. They were so blue they looked almost lavender-violet. People don’t believe me. They were the eyes people call “Liz Taylor eyes.” My grandmother would say anyone in the family with very bright blue eyes had gotten them from her late husband. She calls them “the Payne eyes.” It’s in the intensity too. And a head full of black hair. That was…unexpected.

I was going to be dignified and hold it together. I used to be known for my ability to do that, believe it or not. If you spend enough time holding it together, you don’t get better at it. You get worse at it. Well, that went right out the window. I burst into tears. I'm certain that his stoicism is what made me so soft with time.

I chose his name carefully. Messenger of God. My messenger. And I gave him my father's name. And I gave him an old family name. I gave him my own name. My family name. The name of my house. I never doubted that he'd improve the reputation of that last.

I was young, but I was always perceptive and I’ve always been able to feel the room. My therapist says that’s trauma. No one said it that day, but it was there in the silence between the words. The jazz of an uncertain life. They thought he was going to die. No they couldn’t bring him to me. As soon as I thought I could stand, walk a few steps to a wheelchair, I could go to him. Now. Take me now. I can stand. Take me now. Even then I didn’t have any notion of what I could and could not do. He got that from me too, maybe. If I never consider the doubt, I can almost do anything. And I did. I wasn’t in my right mind enough to know that I couldn’t do what I was doing. I still couldn’t feel my legs. But I got out of bed under my own power and took the few steps.
I couldn’t hold him. Not for three days. But I held his little hand. He weighed 6 pounds and 13 ounces. He had a feeding tube and wires…just all over. He was a little over a month early. If he’d gone to term they said, he’d have weighed ten or eleven pounds. We make them big where I come from.

He made it through. I held my breath and he held his. I begged and pleaded and bargained with the universe that if this baby that I wasn’t certain I’d ever even really wanted would live... My story isn’t any different than anyone else who ever loved a child. Or loved anyone they feared losing.

His sense of justice is a hurricane. I hope all his generation is like this. They’ll change the world. The world will be good. He’s so empathetic. I could tell you stories about how protective and gentle and good he is to others. He will be that man that will make people feel safe. “I know girls are afraid of boys sometimes, but I don’t want girls to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt them.” He was nine.

He’s absolutely beautiful and doesn’t know it. I think it’s probably good at his age. He’s so uncannily smart. And he’s started to develop this creative side that burns in him. Burn, kiddo. Like a sun. Like a 6,000 year old mountain on the other side of the world. Burn the old. He does “that thing with his face instead of smiling.” I love it. No apologies for his face not pleasing anyone. He’s quiet and introspective. He likes to watch what’s going on. But he’ll get you with a zinger. He is so funny. And his humor is dark and dry. He makes me laugh so hard it hurts me. He's so gentle. A man now and never having lost an ounce of that gentleness. In his movements, in his heart. I could go on. And on. And on. And I do on occasion. I’m his biggest fan and I’ll tell everyone. Everyone needs that. I had my dad. But not for nearly long enough.

He never let me make a big deal of his birthday. He's so low-key. He did not get that from me. Birthdays are a big deal for me. I suppose it's because I'm sharply aware of how many I haven't gotten to make big deals of. That's what weighs on me with every single birthday of every single person I love.

He's recently developed a taste for red velvet cake. It was my father's favorite too. He called my version "impressive" and if you know him, that's the highest praise. I think it must be the cream cheese frosting. It is pretty good. It never ceases to amaze me how much he is mine and how much he is my father. Last week, my therapist saw him for the first time and said something that made him smile. And she couldn't stop talking about how he's all mine when he smiles. I love that his happiest self if myself. He looks like his father when he's tired. He looks like my father when he's concentrating, in the way his eyelids shadow those vivid eyes.

On his birthday, here’s to the stubborn, the brave, the just. Here’s to fighting for what you believe in. Here’s to purpose. Here’s to the thing you never thought you wanted that turned into the most beautiful thing you ever saw. So beautiful that the brightness hurts your eyes and you feel it as a lump in your throat. Here’s to Liz Taylor eyes and love at first sight. Here’s to you, my incredible child. You are more different and more dazzling than I ever knew or thought or dreamed you’d be. I’ve done my best to bring you to this shore with what you’ll need to keep sailing. Happy Birthday. I love you. Here's to the next nineteen.