It was not easy to conceive you. There were many months that my heart expanded like an iron balloon inside my chest with disappointment and fear that there might never be a you.
When I did get pregnant with you, I was nauseous to almost epic proportions: losing weight instead of gaining all the way through the end of my second trimester. For five months, I puked every single afternoon in the middle of Jeopardy. My sickness was so violent that my cheeks and eyes became spotted with red-speckles of broken blood vessels. I looked as if I was being beaten.
You tried to come early and I was sent to bed for a month. The hideous medicine they gave me to in order to keep you safe made my hands shake so hard that I could not hold a book to read.
Labor lasted twenty-two hours after my water broke. I had planned to have a natural birth, but when the doctor asked me about pain medication I remember telling him that ANYTHING was fine. That he could even hit me in the head with a hammer if necessary.
I have monitored your breathing in the middle of the night. I've driven across town to retrieve a Spaghettio-stained scrap of yellow blanket (and let you fall sleep with the nasty thing, waiting until it was safe to sneak away and wash). I have held your head over the toilet and splashed cool water on the back of your neck. I have allowed you to wipe your nose on my shirt.
I've been frightened for you, sitting in the ER while you got shots or x-rays or stitches. Once, you were hospitalized for pneumonia and I crawled into your oxygen tent and curled up like a cat until my body fit inside the metal hospital crib, just so I could be where I could touch you.
I have been a carrier of Purell. I've cut your restaurant food into small pieces and checked to make sure it was properly cooked. I've been vigilant about choking hazards. I've pulled over to the side of the road in a panic to make double sure your seatbelt is secure. I have pushed my face right up to yours and talked to you in a whisper about Disneyworld to keep you calm while you were stitched up or your blood was drawn. I've shielded your face from the sight of doctor's needles. I've cleaned up your blood and forced myself to keep the fear out of my voice.
For awhile you did not eat anything but scrambled eggs. I snuck wheat germ into them with the cheese. I bought you gummy bears that said they had a days supply of vegetables and fiber inside of them.
Now, somehow, you are nine. You are long limbed and know how to do things on the computer I don't understand. You eat off the adult menu. And you refuse to wear a jacket. Or even long sleeves
I tell you to put on something warm and you roll your eyes. You sigh. You deflate somehow - as if I have ruined something inside you, as if I am trying to take away some part of your deepest essence, as if you are Arden- The Boy Who Feels No Cold , and I am your evil nemesis: She Who Demands Long Sleeves.
It's not a weekly battle. We go through this daily. I keep telling myself to give up, to let you go out in the cold, but then I hear that there is a frost warning, or that clouds will gather towards late afternoon, and I think how I know you are going to be outside every second you can and before I can stop myself I am speaking: Put on a jacket.
This morning, you went back to your room sullenly. I heard you mutter under your breath: Great last words.
Here is what I want you to know:
If I do die before seeing you again, and my last words to you really end up being Arden, go get a jacket, I hope that in time you will understand.
It is not summer yet. The winds are unpredictable. Clouds have a way of gathering. A day that starts off with sun can end in drizzle or worse. If that should happen, I want to know that you can reach in your backpack and pull out something to make you warm, and dry, and safe.
Yet, you are nine. You will go out no matter what, and I will not be with you for most of your day. If it starts to rain, or the weather dips into the 30s, you will be the one deciding what to do and chances are you'll still return to me with arms like ice, swearing that you are not cold.
Still, just in case you need it. Just in case you find yourself wishing it was there. Take a jacket. Know that I love you.
