The Party Crasher

I once thought I controlled everything. Then I had a baby.

I had a baby that cried for hours. For weeks. Then months.

I found myself a year later having not slept a whole six or seven hours straight in over a year, haggard and pale and disheveled and very much not in control of anything. I had a toddler who nursed every hour on the hour throughout the night and demanded to sleep only in my armpit for both the nights and his naps. He, in fact, controlled everything.

Then one morning, he overslept, and I couldn’t leave him in my bed alone, so I missed breakfast. And I felt nauseated.

And I knew.

A day later, my hand shook as I showed my husband a very, very positive pregnancy test, the pink line vibrant, almost neon in its decisiveness. I was pretty sure I would never sleep again.

Charlie came just seven and a half months later. He was an emergency induction and born at just 37 weeks. I was very worried that it was too early, that he would not be ready. He weighed 8 pounds, 9 ounces, and he had a 14.5-inch head. He was ready, ready or not.

Today, that baby boy, our most beloved party crasher, turns nine years old. He is our Ferdinand the Bull. He is our artist, our dreamer, our shower singer, our game-maker. He’s part polar bear and part Blues Brother. He’s particular about his clothes and loves his pleather jacket he received for Christmas after much begging. He’s everyone’s friend. He loves fiercely and he defends the weak. He is braver than I will ever be. He prefers the Everlasting Gobstopper in the original Willy Wonka to the higher tech version in the recent remake, as he told me tonight while giving me a very thorough comparison of the two movies. Make no mistake: a movie about candy and chocolate is bound to be a movie that Charlie pays attention to, because this boy has a sweet tooth like no other.

This weekend, I took Charlie for his first pedicure. He had been asking me for over a month if he could have one after he spotted my newly painted toes one day. When we walked into the nail salon, the older women all turned and stared at us skeptically. He was wearing his shiny athletic shorts, a surfer T shirt, and his New Balance sneakers. We sat in the pedicure spa chairs, and Charlie learned the ways of the pedicure — the hot towels and simmering water, the tingly lotions and the tedious trimmer. Finally, he showed his tech the polish he had picked out: bright bubblegum pink and Meyer lemon yellow. He wanted his toes painted in alternating yellow and pink.

We left the salon with him in orange foam flip-flops, his toes bright and round. My mother scowled at his toes. His brothers giggled. But Charlie liked them. I am not sure where he found his love for pink and yellow, but I figure that if anyone can pull it off, it’s an almost 5-foot tall third grader who wears a size 14 pant. I love that he wanted to try the pedicure, but I love even more that he actually did it; he didn’t shy away even for a second, even with every eye on him. He followed through. I’m so proud of him. I hope he’s never afraid to go after what he wants, even if it’s an unusual want.

The world is not easy for Charlie. He struggles. He works harder for what he wants and needs than his brothers do. I worry about him a lot, but I also worry about him less in some ways. Of all my children, Charlie has shown me a strength and a resilience and a bravery that takes my breath away. He came to me when I didn’t know I needed him. He was strong when I feared he might be weak. And he slept in his own crib and for many hours straight when he was just six weeks old (thank you, thank you, thank you). Charlie was not my first baby, but he taught me so many things about motherhood that I would not have known without him. He might have crashed the party, but in many ways, he repaired and healed me. He is a big part of my heart.

Happy birthday, my 9-year-old second boy. Thank goodness I don’t control everything.