Firstborns

Twenty-seven years ago, a redheaded woman rocks her daughter to sleep. The daughter, only two months into her little life outside of the womb, has peach fuzz for hair, and blue eyes like her father. The redheaded mother sings all of the songs that her mother has taught her, the same songs that her mother's mother probably taught her. The redheaded mother is twenty-seven years-old. Soon, she will have to go back to work full-time. But she will always be there at night to rock her daughter to sleep, humming the classic lullabyes that her daughter will remember for a lifetime.

Twenty-seven years later, a redheaded mother visits her daughter. The daughter is expecting her first child in two months. The daughter is twenty-seven years-old. She causes her mother to recall that time, twenty-seven years ago, when she herself was a new mother, the mother of "the most beautiful baby" with the porcelain skin and the easy smile; the little peanut that would begin to walk and cause people to wonder how an infant just picked herself up to hobble around, since the little peanut was still so tiny and bald.

My mother is her mother's firstborn. I am my mother's firstborn. Twenty-seven years separates my mother and me. Twenty-seven years will separate me and my child, my firstborn.

29 Weeks into Gestation

"I'm sick of being pregnant! I can't even groom myself anymore!"

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Why can't you take over at this point? Why can't this be like "March of the Penguins," like where you share in warming the egg?"

"I would if I could, baby."

***

We graduated from Prepared Childbirth class yesterday. We were the youngest pups there, I'm guessing by at least five years. I had so many questions. I was the only one grabbing for my baby daddy's hand during the moments in the videos where they showed the crowning. And at every mention of the word "membranes," I was pulling my t-shirt up over my mouth like an overstretched turtleneck. Rookie-dom solidifies itself more everyday.

***

Last night I had a dream that I went for my OB/GYN check-up and the nursing staff, who all spoke Spanish, told me that my pelvic bone was too tight and that I would need it adjusted in order to have a successful vaginal birth. So, naturally, they told me to climb up on a set of high monkey bars so they could stretch out my pelvis. I complied. I then went home, started having contractions, and realized it was too late to go to the hospital. I gave birth to Mortimer, Bill Cosby's pen from "Picture Pages."

On Having an Accident

I apologized to my professor for being late to class last night. Told him I had gotten sick, had to go home and change my outfit before I came back to class.

Well. That was kinda true.

***

Where were you at 7p.m. last night? I know where I was. I was just circling Central Square, right on time to find prime parking for my 7:30p.m. class, when suddenly, I felt some great discomfort running from my pelvis to my chest. I began to feel overheated and a bit bloated, so I adjusted my seat, unclicked my seatbelt. The discomfort worsened. It felt as though my baby was trying to blow a giant fart inside of me.

The situation was bleak. Where to pull over at Central Square? Where to find a public restroom?

I tried to burp. I tried to toot. The pressure was mounting. I heard a gurgling noise in my chest. The baby started doing Saturday Night Fever. I felt as though I was the pilot in that first scene in Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. What if I lost control of the wheel? What if my appendix burst, right here, in Central Square, where the looney per capita is, like, 3 to 1?

I finally tried the only thing that I thought might spell R-E-L-I-E-F and it wasn't Rolaids.

***

I called Lovey. "I'm coming home. I had an accident. Just calling to tell you so that you know why I don't talk to you when I get in the door."

"Poop or Pee?" he asked, because it must have been important in his brain to know this.

"Both," I said.

***

Driving home, I saw all of the teenage punks dressed up, making their trick-or-treating rounds, and I questioned for a half-second asking one of them to trade outfits so that I could go back to class.

***

There were so many cops swirling around Dorchester, keeping the streets safe on Halloween. I drove extra careful, even though I was trying to speed to get home and change. What if one of them pulled me over, I thought. "I'm sorry, Officer, but I'm 7 months pregnant and I just crapped my pants. Maybe you can let me off easy this time?"

***

At 7:30p, I reached home, showered down, ran out again and was back in class by 8p.m. just in time to talk about James Frey.