(Here -- i.e. September 6, 2004)
Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, Julia
Six Septembers ago, you tried to come too soon. Oh, it wasn't six years to this day. Things don't work out so neatly in real life, but it was six years ago this month.
You were not due until November 19, 1998. What got into you, that September? Why were you so determined to get out of me? Could you not stand the wait? Did you decide you were ready? You were not, dear. But oh, how very like you, lovely one.
Daddy put me in the car took me to the hospital.
The hospital took one look at me, and put me to bed.
They kept me over night.
They kept you in my womb.
They sent me home the next day.
Nana and Daddy sent me directly to the couch.
They fussed over me.
Daddy did everything: laundry, cleaning, bathing Benjamin, playing with him. Even Benjamin seemed to understand (not like, mind you, just understand) that I could no longer pick him up. I explained to him. Daddy explained to him. Nana did better. She taught him to climb on his bed, so that I could change him, there. She showed him how to climb into and out of his highchair. When he needed me to pick him up, instead I would sit down, and he would crawl into my lap, finding a way around my belly--finding a way around you.
Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Julia, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
They poured water into me, until I floated. They took the doctor's orders seriously. I did too. I saw the humor in the contradictions, though:
Drink more water than humanly possible. Then, drink some more. And when you can lie down, lie down. When you can't lie down, sit. When you can't sit, sit anyhow. And yes, I know you have a two and a half year old little boy, and what a cruel joke these orders must seem. You're going to follow them though, right?And dear one, I, who had been waiting for you for as long as I could remember, never did mange to be ready for you. I'm still not.
Yes. I am just not sure I know how.
Sure you do. You'll figure out a way to deal with Ben. Put up gates. Lock doors. Drag out the crayons. Put on the TV. LIE DOWN.
It's got a good beat, but can I dance to it?
Ha! My wife scoffs at my orders whenever I tell her about a patient in your situation. She says, "Are you going to watch the toddlers for her?"
I like your wife.
I do, too. Still your daughter needs eight more weeks in there, understand?
Hey, tell her.
And we can't accept anything less than four. Understand?
Yes.
So, lie down.
Well, maybe if I wasn't drinking so much water. Benjamin aside, I'm not going to get much time lying down, if I'm drinking water. You may not have noticed, but...I'm rather pregnant.
Aha! I suspected as much. But listen, we're not going to accept anything less than that four weeks. We'll get you through the next four weeks,and then she can come anytime she wants, and we'll be ready for her. Eight would be better though. Shoot for eight, okay?
You calmed down. My uterus calmed down. I never did. Cat on a hot tin roof. Bird on a wire. Butter scraped over too much bread. You were a dream about to come to true. I had to believe. So many dreams turn into nightmares. I was afraid to believe.
Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering
In the sun
We decided we needed to get serious about choosing your name. Don't worry, love. Julia has been your name since I was old enough to imagine you. I wanted to name you Alice though, for my Nana. Daddy was afraid it was too old fashioned. We also liked Emily, Emma, and Olivia. One late September evening, we discussed it with Benjamin. He was so little. You will never know that little boy. His world was different. He was the only one. You will never believe this, but he could not wait for you to come, either. In the end, Julia Alice, Benjamin decided in favor of your name, every bit as much as Daddy and I. Then we put on the CD. The three of us held hands. The doctor never did answer my question about dancing. And so our little circle of love slowly danced around the living room in our old house, with you in the middle. John Lennon sang your name.
Julia, Julia, morning moon, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
John's beautiful song, of course, is about trying to recapture that which has been lost. The mother he never had enough of. The dream that came upon him. The dream that faded as quickly as it came. But dear, that is what babies are, even the healthiest, strongest babies, like you and your brothers. Even the best parents fake it. As soon as we get used to one stage, you move onto the next. By the time we figure that out, you'll have moved on again. We run behind, and try to do our best to protect you. We intentionally lag behind sometimes too, so that we won't stunt you.
When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind, Julia
After all that worry, you were late in coming. The nineteenth of November, 1998 came and went with nary a pang. Wednesday, November 25, 1998, Nana took me (and Benjamin) to my regularly scheduled ob/gyn visit. He examined me and said, "Well, that was a lot of worry for nothing. You must have made things too comfortable in there. How would you like to have this baby, today?"
I said, "No," as Nana said, "Yes." I am sure the doctor did not want his Thanksgiving dinner interrupted. I did not want to rush you. I knew, just knew, that it would all go too fast. They overruled me. Nana and I went home to pack my bag. Daddy came to take me to the hospital, and Nana stayed with Benjamin. I can still see him sitting in his highchair, coloring. I can still feel the little pang of guilt over my involvement in ending his babyhood.
Now you are going to kindergarten. Tomorrow. All summer long, Daddy has been telling you that he is not going to let you go. Trying on my role for your teen years, I take your side. I tell you not to worry, that he does not mean it. In my heart though, I betray you. I wish to God that Daddy had the power to slow it down.
We have already gotten time with you that most parents do not get with their children. Since you had not turned five by the end of August 2003, you were too young to enter kindergarten last Fall. It did not matter that you would turn five before the year was up. That is not how it was when I was little. It still is not like that in some towns.
Some people thought I was crazy. They thought I should have had you screened and then petitioned to let you get in early. I never bothered to find out if our town allows such a thing. Why would I? A whole extra year with you? Why in God's name would I ever give that up? Extra time with you. Why would I refuse such a blessing?
This year, Auntie Sherri reminded me that Auntie Susan had been in the same position with Jennifer. Although in their town, Jennifer could not enter kindergarten because she hadn't turned five before it started, the next year, she could still enter first grade, provided she tested well. Everyone was sure you would test well. I was, too. Again, I never even found out if such a thing was possible.
You are mine. For at least 12 years and two months, and three weeks (minus two days) more, as far as the law is concerned, you are mine. Since you will stay in high school (and my lovely one, you will) I have at least twelve years and nine months. I will start to wean myself when you go to college (you will). I will learn my boundaries by the time you begin your career. If you get married, by that time, I will teach myself to pretend my heart does not think it owns you. I will fool the world. If you choose to have your own babies, I will love them for whomever they are.
And I will help you, if you want it, when you need it.
I will kiss them, hold them, rock them.
I will never tell them, but sometimes, I will close my eyes rub my lips along their hairline, and pretend they are you. Just for a moment.
Julia, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Go to kindergarten. Go, but remember you are not in your senior year of high school. You will get there soon enough, love. Look how quickly you got over being a baby, being a toddler, even being a little girl. Strangers routinely assume you are a year or two older than you are. You have no touch of baby left about you, on the outside, anyhow. They do not know your heart. Where your brain and your hunger--your drive to move so quickly--chill me to the bone, your baby soft heart warms me, gives me a hold on you, gives me hope.
When Christopher was born you were so little, still a baby yourself. You're just one year, and five months (minus one day) older than he. You had seen him when you visited us in the hospital, and seemed interested, and not threatened. The day we brought Christopher home from the hospital, when I carried him into the parlor, you shook your head, "No."
After I have to leave you tomorrow, I will do the same.
... calls me
So I sing a song of love for Julia, Julia, Julia
For me now, John's beautiful song, of course, is about trying to recapture that which has been lost. The baby I never had enough of. The dream that came upon me. You have not faded. The dream that is you, is more vibrant than ever. But in the end, it will not be mine.
Except in my heart.
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