It's a boy, right?

With racing heart and cracking voice, my hands shook as I dropped a quarter into the pay phone that monsoon drenched August day. Making the call from my office seemed too public. Mid-afternoon, the campus was mostly deserted and I could receive the news, compose myself, and return to my desk as if I'd simply taken a walk. I gave my name, stated my purpose and was quickly transferred. The person who answered my question asked very gently, "Is that good news?" Confirmation immediately replaced weeks of wondering and months of despair.

So began a journey, inseparably shared. I could not have known how the full fury of your presence would be unleashed. I could not have anticipated how your life would alter mine irrevocably.

The months melted as notification brought surprise in some, giddiness in others. I began to modify my diet and relinquish beloved iced tea, all processed food, and chocolate. These exclusions hardly mattered as almost everything ingested became intolerable. I existed, barely, with a regimen of oatmeal, broiled chicken, and granola bars. Tiny bits of each, eaten throughout the day. No recommended medication was accepted, no dramatic measures undertaken.

With complete support from my hovering husband, I went to work each day no matter my condition. I'll admit that more than once I laid my head on my metal desk and rested for a brief moment. Then I'd read a note that I'd taped in the center of the desk. It read, "In a moment, you may feel better." I always did.

As someone who'd been categorized as an 'elderly,' I embraced diagnostic tools. By fall, I'd scheduled amniocentesis counseling and the test itself. As I walked toward the parking lot on the testing day, a colleague stopped to say hello. He remarked that I was looking so much better and that he'd been very worried. I assured him that I was more than fine. Within 15 minutes, I wasn't.

The brain is a curious organ. Shock can erase trauma and some events can never be recalled. On October 7th, I drove along a familiar street, headed for my house. From there, your dad planned to drive us about an hour west to a teaching hospital for our genetic counseling session. I clearly remember the stop sign as I turned left toward the mountain. That's it. Nothing further until I heard a man talking to me through the window of my station wagon. I was stuck in sand on the side of the road, my car demolished. I'd lost consciousness, meandered from the street and crashed into a parked car. I was alive and more importantly, so were you.



After five days in the hospital, including a bit of scary drama, I was released. Only the car couldn't be saved. We were intact, ready to resume our journey to separation. On another day, I'm again turning a street corner after an exhausting day at work. Something happened. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible tap from inside. Like hummingbird wings fluttering. It's you. I imagine you're saying, "Hello, Mom. I'm here."

We're waiting for the results that will tell us what we think we already know. Knew from the beginning. Ordered, in fact. The lab is supposed to tell only the mother but Dad calls and gets the answer. He can't wait to share the news. I realize from his excited voice that he knows something. I say, "It's a boy, right?"

I'd told Dad months ago that I wanted a girl with dark hair, blue eyes, very smart, left-handed, and exhibiting lots of spirit. He cautioned me against such a list. My brown eyes might disallow any other color. I shouldn't have worried. Only the left-handed trait is absent.

In February, shock masks Dad's face as his staff honors him and you with a surprise shower celebration. There's a Kelli cake, your first of many. The months and the doctors indicate we're getting close. I'm ready. Are you?



Sorry about the naked bottom.



I'm waiting. Impatiently. There's a lottery at work. Someone will win when the day's finally chosen. Actually, we are the winners. Forever.



The name's long chosen. A savings account awaits. Furniture is positioned, clothes and ubiquitous diapers abound. Thank you notes for presents have been written and mailed. There's nothing left to do. Time's up. What's the day? Where's that face? I just want a peek. A tiny peek and I'll be satisfied. Maybe.

I'm hoping for March 27th. My daddy's birthday. What a present. Though he won't be able to share the joy, I believe that somehow he'll know. You have selected a different date. The digits are 25. Fine. Your Great Uncle Jack's birthday. I'm his namesake. Almost as good. Now it's your day. In perpetuity.




For the car trip home, your tiny body, less than six pounds, is swaddled in a festive onesie decorated with pink lambs. It hardly seems capable of clothing a person. You are doll-like, in fact. So small, so large in our lives.



During the waiting months, I tried to write about the experience. One essay, given to Dad as a Christmas present in 1982, is titled "Passenger Notes" and chronicles the journey. Reading it more than twenty-eight years later, I'm struck by the seeping emotion. The language erupted in part due to hormones, but definitely heightened by heart. Most of the questions I asked in those pages were answered long ago. Life took care of them as well as the ones I didn't know to ask.

I wrote that I expected to learn:
.to love without reservation
.to ponder and wonder more
.to be softer and kinder
.to really see
.to admit mortality

As your mother, I expected to share:
.the discovery of your toes
.the power of a smile or scream
.the lusciousness of ice cream, syrup, gooey cake, pizza (for your Daddy's sake)
.the roar and wetness of the ocean
.the cool quiet of a green forest
.the magnificence of a rainbow, the terror of thunder
.the flight of a bird
.the sweet smell of a flower
.the joy of Christmas
.the words you'll form
.the friends you'll have
.the sorrows you'll feel
.the hope you'll store
.the love you'll bring

Sappy perhaps. Overly emotional. You bet. A messy mother writes raw.

Once you'd arrived, I tried again. This essay may be even worse. Its title is 'Incubation.' The beginning reads, "What has it been like, dear one? A sloshy resting place."

Obviously I hadn't recovered. Regained my sense of restraint. (Usually not evident anyway.) I'm still excessively effusive. As excited and enchanted today as I was in 1983. Perhaps more so. Too lavish in my attention at times. Too anxious at others. Totally committed inexorably.



Happy early birthday, Caitlin, my favorite daughter. Thank you, Henry, for giving her to us.