Birthdays – H i n d s i g h t

The First Year

February 26, 2023February 27, 2023 Susan Greco

It’s the eve of my first son’s 23rd birthday, and I am flooded back to that night when labor began and I crossed that threshold into becoming a mother. It would be another year after that when I would write this essay, but today, rereading these memories, I love that they’re still crystal clear. Seems you just wing it when you begin this parenting adventure, and every day as you step up to and into new challenges, you surprise yourself by how much you’re capable of and how far you’ve come. Forgive the cliche, but it really is the best job.

“Your life will never be the same,” everyone warned, urging my husband and me to go out on the town in the remaining weeks, even just see a movie, since this would be our last opportunity for a while. I remember the lady in the drug store who glanced at my full belly, then asked if this was my first. When I said it was, she laughed out loud and declared, “You’ve got a big surprise in store for you!”

Along with the loss of sleep, lack of time and exhausting exhilaration, my son’s birth surprised me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It began to soften my grip on the world I once controlled, and my views on privacy, modesty and relationships changed permanently. I was now officially inducted into this world, connected to everyone and everything in it.

Several hours after my water broke and the birth process began, I suddenly didn’t care who saw me naked, bathed in a pathetic pain, bright lights shining on areas much more accustomed to the dark. Convinced during weeks of yoga training that quiet, focused breathing would ease my labor, I emitted instead dry, throaty vowel sounds like an old lawn mower refusing to start. The labor nurses swaddled me in warm towels so I could weather the storm. And I did.

Once home, the number of calls, cards and casseroles was staggering. Beyond our close circle of people, old friends came out of the woodwork, arms laden with comfort food and sweet little baby things. Some talked of their own children, now grown up and paying off student loans, and told stories of way back when. Some just sat and listened, quietly imagining their own future.

When the visitors tapered off and I’d returned the last dish, a peaceful quiet briefly blew through the house, eventually interrupted by household chores, job responsibilities and of course, baby cries. Days were nights, nights were days, and in between, I did everything I could to avoid walking over that loose floorboard which squeaked underfoot. Funny, it never seemed to wake the cats.

As the weeks passed and I began to get out more, I attracted otherwise disinterested strangers who would smile when they saw the baby, many lingering to admire him. Those particularly bold reached out to touch his soft skin. Most made it clear it was the baby they were interested in, and my attempts at idle conversation were unnecessary and interrupted their private moment with him. I loved their visits just the same.

Back at the office, I’d nurse and type, cradling baby in my left arm and dragging the computer mouse with my right. When it was time to switch sides, I’d return phone calls and nurse some more. Couriers who came by our two-person office seemed confused at first when I didn’t turn around to greet them, but then a baby smacking sound or bobbing head would tip them off. They’d return later in the week, skilled in the new drill, and let my co-worker sign for the package.

Just as groups of dogs and their owners flock to one another in parks, my baby attracted other babies and their parents. My husband and I formed instant bonds with other couples as we compared notes on topics like teething and proper burping techniques, essential information for our baby-centric world. When we would occasionally go out, it was wonderful to see my husband with other new dads cradling their babies and bragging that their child could already grasp a rattle or babble “da da.”

With the new baby came a new fascination with sleep: anywhere, anytime, any amount. On route to work, I fantasized about pulling into the closest motel (alone!) and getting a room for the day with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, where I could savor consecutive hours of delicious sleep, alone and quiet. I bought special bath gels claiming to soothe the baby so he could easily transition to bedtime. I moved the CD player from my office to his room, hoping repeated lullaby rhythms would carry him to sleep. I spent hours searching the Internet for the perfect bedtime CD–forget my own shopping and U2’s new release.

The changes the baby brought extended to every cupboard and crevice of our home. The calming tones in our living room were interrupted every few feet by a primary-colored baby gadget, a pittance for the luxury of a ten-minute distraction. Three-inch socks clung to the inside of the dryer, turning up loads later in the sleeves of our T-shirts. Our promising china collection now mingled with plastic Teletubbies dinnerware.

When we went out to eat, I easily recognized the waiters who were parents or even aunts and uncles from the other ones. The former, usually smiling, knew to promptly bring a basket of bread and extra napkins in preparation for the impending food fest. The latter, via body language and average-at-best service, assured us he was not impressed with our little angel, whose squawking broke the almighty adult ambience. But full of naïve delight, we were just thankful our baby was so enthusiastic about mealtime.

Now, over a year later with more challenges ahead and fatigue still hanging around, I am oddly energized by it all. Our son has sprouted up eye level with the tabletops and scours our floors for things not intended for his mouth. He’s become skilled at catching and pulling the cats’ tails, and his pale, soft hands are filling up with scratches. And even though it’s almost summer and we still haven’t raked the fall leaves, we did finally get out and see a movie.

My sister took this photo, one of my favorites, for the first of what would be many Christmas cards to come.

Birthdays, Mother's Love, mothering, Parenting

Evan

February 12, 2023February 12, 2023 Susan Greco

It was a pregnancy that barely took I think, now looking back on it. This one bypassed the hallmarks of my first go round—uber-thick tresses, hankerings for gooey grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup, and the inevitable three scoops, two breasts and a belly, peeking out from the bath water, too swollen to submerge where it’s warm.

We were sailing along through the pregnancy, and then it happened: the slow trickle down my leg. I was not just eight months pregnant, but now an embarrassingly and inconveniently incontinent eight months pregnant. Thankfully it quickly dawned on me that it was my water that had broken and not my bladder, thank God. I was already carrying around diapers for my barely two-year-old and there wasn’t going to be lugging Depends around, too.

I wouldn’t dream of arriving at a dinner party a month early, so why had my baby lost his own manners, toyedwith the notion of showing up this early, and gone and done it? We weren’t nearly done with our nesting and besides, I hadn’t yet taken my pregnant belly photo, yet this baby was coming on his terms I realized, another trickle moseying down my leg. He was leading and I was going to follow. Tonight.

I was determined to birth this baby, who I knew would be my last, naturally and I checked out videos from the hospital which coached me on a drug-free labor. I’d be setting off on this inward journey I’d thoroughly prepared for, and soon found myself in the delivery room in bed on all fours staring down at the hospital mosaic floor tile. The sporadic dark tiles interrupted the pale ones, part of the peaceful beach scene I’d conjured, and with each wallop of a labor pain, I blew away these pesky dark tiles, which I’d decided were roaches I could obliterate with each exhale. After I’d gained considerable ground on these pests, I could hear my doctor instructing me to do something, but his voice was muffled and far away, and I struggled to understand. I kept telling him I couldn’t hear him, but I was the reason, I was the noise screaming bloody murder. Somewhat intimidated by steep roller coasters as it is, for this interminable ride, I’d been placed in the first car, and was flying down arms up on an infinite track with no end in sight.

After a long six hours—which I’d later learn is a textbook labor for one’s second delivery—I got to meet this little fella, all five pounds three ounces of him. His eyes were big—beyond saucers, we’re talking platters here—and he looked up at me, the momma bird, and batted sweet butterfly kisses my way. His enormous eyes fixed inside extraordinarily long lashes studied me. I tried my best to answer with my own unremarkable eyes, though was still shivering from the drug-free labor.

He was unique from the get-go. A mere four pounds leaving the hospital, he caused quite the stir in the elevator with women mostly who peeked into his blanket to study his miniature face buried inside a hospital-perfect swaddle. He’d bat those luscious lashes at them, and they’d beam back at me, jealous—or was it relief that this unusually miniature bundle wasn’t accompanying them home?

His ears were not exactly ears yet, but appeared like forming buds I worried could go either way, absorb back into his head or unfurl and evolve into separate flesh and cartilage we all take for granted as ears. Don’t touch the ears, I reminded myself, as I swaddled him loosely; let them blossom into true lobes, God willing.

We soon began our dance of breastfeeding and sleep, cries and burps, diapering and swaddling. His head was no bigger than a squirrel’s, but it was smooth and warm and smelled heavenly, a scent if you could market could earn you a fortune off wistful parents of older children, but needing a fix of early baby days.

Time zoomed by and one day, out of nowhere, we found ourselves by the crib, mattress set at the lowest setting, before our baby, now tall and grabbing the railing, yelling, “New Di! New Di! New Di!” He made quite the ruckus over this “New Di!” thingamajig he insisted on, and even though we felt tired and slow, we ultimately caught on. He was imitating our very own words we said to him each morning, “Do you need a new diaper?” He did indeed and was telling us plain as day, then and there, as he would again and again in the days that followed.

Life went on and he ate more and grew stronger and we slept less and grew exhausted. One morning, we looked up to find our big-eyed boy standing before us in the kitchen, having quietly climbed out of his crib all by himself—a remarkable feat he’d never performed—ready for a new di and breakfast. Like a cat jumping from a high perch without a sound, he could now go places he wished and do it silently too, but for the swishing sound of his diaper while en route.

Forever watching, learning, and absorbing, he did things in his own way and time, like when he first learned to walk. Unlike his older brother, who tried and fell, tried again, and fell again, this baby crawled, pulled up and stayed propped up with furniture, never letting go or falling, until one Easter Sunday when we were at grandma’s house. Out of the blue, he took off, from the living room through the dining room into the kitchen and back again, walking like a pro, simple as pie. That was that. On to the next milestone.

Walking led to running and running led to tricycles, scooters, and then on up to bikes. Starting with training wheels, he wobbled like we all used to, but stuck with it, always declining our offers to take the wheels off until one day he requested the wheels off today please. So off they came and off he went, a bike rider now, pedaling and balancing with ease. He’d done it again: accurately sized up a situation, dove in when he knew he was able, and performed perfectly and without hesitation.

Today, I’m cycling home from his elementary school with him in front taking the lead, as he likes to do, and he’s just barely fitting on the red 21-speed bike he got for Christmas. Not far behind, I’m working my way up the hill and noticing his little spine that’s visible through his shiny blue soccer shirt. Like little pearls strung on a chain, these vertebrae are the very links that hold him together, the same ones I saw in the ultrasound some nine years ago. I pause for a minute, remembering, until he shouts “C’mon, mom! You comin’?”

birthday serenade at Commander’s Palace, New Orleans

Note: I wrote this some 14 years ago, and today, Evan’s 21st birthday, it seemed a good time to share these memories.

Birthdays, Food, Sunshine, Travel, Uncategorized

Up With The Sun

June 13, 2021June 13, 2021 Susan Greco

Never once have I regretted waking up early to see the sun rise. It’s your own private preview to the day before the world begins to stir, your chance to discover what awe, sparkle, brightness and hope look like. Sometimes there’s a dramatic sky previewing the show, other times, a cloud cover has settled in so thick you’re certain you won’t see anything. Once, years ago, I walked away from waiting on a sunrise to begin, assuming I’d either woken up too late and missed the show, or there was no show at all, since the clouds wouldn’t let the sun out, only to turn around to find a giant orange ball had risen, tiptoeing in just when I’d stopped watching. Today’s clouds parted and presented us with a shimmering gold nugget, actively stretching and spreading its molten wonder. Everyone quietly found their seats – some on yoga mats in the sand, others climbing on overturned chaises, some standing still, reverent and expectant – each of us humbled and respectful, talking in hushed tones.

The hot glittery gold began to spread out and thin yellow rays extended across the sky, reaching out to each of us there looking up. It’s real, these golden tentacles which stretch from the center. They’re like the sunshines I used to draw as a little girl, when I’d carefully select colors from my Crayola box: orange, yellow-orange, orange-yellow, goldenrod, yellow, lemon yellow and gold, and if you were lucky enough to be coloring in 1972 as I was, you had access to the new fluorescent Crayola collection debuting that year, adding chartreuse and ultra yellow along with other colors to the mix. Those rays aren’t just in a child’s imagination, they are real – real enough for an iPhone to capture and so much more engaging in person than in any stock photos or inspirational motifs. They’re as real as those smoke curls I used to draw which spiraled out of the chimney of my house.

As the performance heightened, seagulls circled, perfectly picturesque and swooping into every frame. The sun broke out of its gold shell and rose up quickly, spreading a bright yellow haze all around. The crowd then shifted and scattered, and we moved on into the day, filled up from the performance, and my sister and I agreeing it was well worth setting the alarm. The show would resume tomorrow, but by then, we’d be back home in different cities, returning to the less interesting routines we’d left.

Afterward we went for coffee at a large Starbucks nearby. From our table outside, we watched lots of people – singles, couples, joggers and partners with their dogs – and talked for hours, a pair of sisters full on conversation, caffeine and celebration from this rare birthday getaway. This week she turned sixty, my warm, beautiful slender, forever-young sister, and me, just two years behind. For four days, we walked, sunned, swam and shelled. Lizards darted across our paths, a pair of parakeets flew overhead, pigeons cooed nesting on the hotel’s roof, and a bright green iguana even appeared, jumping in our pool for a quick swim across.

The four of us – my sister, her daughter, my husband and I – got along well, and it was easy making plans from our rooms directly across the hall from one other. Nearly identical, one room felt like a girls’ dorm with The Food Network on TV running in the background, bikinis hanging out to dry and no shortage of chatter. The other doubled as a couple’s room and workplace, since Joe needed to dedicate time each day connecting with his office. The rental car stayed parked throughout our stay and we instead explored the area on foot – past successions of royal palms in street medians, pastel Art Deco buildings, stark Miami-hot streets, Cuban sandwich shops and stylish cafes with lush outdoor seating.

We discovered a quieter beach away from the center of things and sprung for chaises with umbrellas, a first for each of us. Accustomed to hauling beach umbrellas from home, we’d typically find ourselves frustrated from their tilting or pulling up out of the sand and blowing down the beach, leaving us little choice but to bake in the sun or else call it a day. Esteban’s, our beach chair place, set us up, their drill boring a perfect narrow hole in the sand for our umbrella, creating an afternoon full of marvelous choices – sun or shade, surf or beach, walking the beach or lounging on cushioned chaises. I even fell asleep for a short while, infant-style arms overhead. Delicious.

Meals were consistently wonderful except for dinner the first night when we got stuck in the middle of the largest, tackiest, rudest crowd we’d ever seen, who were constantly everywhere we found ourselves, blaring music and twerking, yelling, racing in cars and weaving on bikes around us. The restaurant was expensive as expected but unremarkable, feta noticeably absent from our Greek salads, canned California olives (c’mon, no Kalamata?), and tiny minced romaine, with a tasteless dressing on the side. It was loud and rushed – a sudden downpour contributing to the mood – as we all moved inside, bringing this crazy party uncomfortably closer. As we all fought fatigue from early morning flights and the rushing around you do before a getaway, this first night gave us a distasteful preview to our stay which luckily, four days in, faded like yesterday’s news. The rest of the time was quieter and what we’d been looking for and desperately needed – our soundtrack of tides, birds and our own spontaneous laughter.

Meals were highlights and our hotel was our favorite place for good ones; it’s so easy opting to stay in when you can dine alfresco in lush outdoor rooms surrounded by tropical vegetation and cute critters minding their own business. Our hotel’s Caesar salad was a thing to behold: Crispy butter lettuce replaced romaine and bread crumbs stood in for croutons, with tiny Parmesan curls scattered all around the top, and a smidgeon of bacon, all of it minimally bound in a refreshing dressing. Grilled shrimp tacos came with soft white corn tortillas, cotija cheese, finely shredded cabbage and jalapeño mayo, another hotel homerun.A friend recommended an authentic Cuban sandwich shop, and a couple by the pool, a place for lobster rolls, so we checked out both, which were authentically delicious.

The birthday – and reason for the trip – was full and fun. I got up early that day and slid a card under Anne’s door with a gift inside – a happier paper surprise on your floor than the usual hotel bill signaling the end of your stay, always a downer. Instead, the party was just getting started. We gathered for brunch and I brought down her bag of gifts – little nothings but each wrapped carefully with love. We got good coffees that day in lieu of the lobby’s free stuff and once more, sat outside in the early June heat. The four of us each found our thing – cappuccino, croissant, eggs and avocado toast – and reveled in it; I love how everyone gets to share in the same fun as the birthday person.

Another beach day, more beautiful weather, and reliable Esteban’s set us up again. Red and purple flags flew like the day before, warning us of rip tides and Japanese Man ‘o War, so we lazily floated close to shore. Five o’clock brought happy hour to our hotel lobby every afternoon, and we patiently stood in line hoping the sauvignon blanc wouldn’t run out. Little clear plastic cups were stacked next to a serving tray and the hotel front desk person turned sommelier for the pour, another plastic cup set out for tips. One day there was only chardonnay and our faces fell, but I politely convinced the pourer to check in the back for more and, spared the dreaded oakiness, the party continued.

We frequently coffeed and happy houred on our favorite patio on the side of the hotel with its snappy striped awning rolled up for evenings, revealing lovely strings of lights woven and stretching across the canopy of vegetation overhead. Lizards darted in and out of the plants surrounding us and one of them who came around every day was missing the tip of its tail.

A bizarre looking caterpillar appeared one morning as well, slowly motoring along a table top where we sat for coffee. An animal lover and learner, Hannah kept saying it might be poisonous, and a quick Google search revealed it was indeed. We had before us the puss caterpillar, a strangely beautiful creature born saddled with a horrible name. My search produced this: their wig-like hairs are actually spines that can cause intense pain, swelling, vomiting, and fever if touched, and with this, our fascination was over. Hannah held out a wooden stirrer for it to climb onto and then moved it far away into the vegetation where it leisurely dismounted and carried on.

It was during one last swim in the pool in the hours before check-out that we each admitted that we’d miss this place. I asked Anne and Hannah if at the end of a nice vacation they make little resolutions like I do, and they admitted they do. One such resolution, especially on the heels of that morning’s sunrise, was to get up earlier and notice the day when it’s its freshest and quietest. Another was to get outside and exercise more. Both ideas we carried with us as we boarded our plane for home, and even though the new season has barely begun, I think this sunny reset is firmly planted inside each of us.