I Liked My Life(23)

My immediate reaction was terror. Not regarding our carbon footprint or in fear for our future child’s safety in this ever-violent world, but because of my overabundance of vacation indulgence. Jamaica was a blur of rum punch and mai tais. I didn’t need to worry about how terrible public schools were because I’d probably done enough brain damage to the baby on my own.

When our first sonogram showed a healthy heartbeat and viable fetus, Brady and I made a silent agreement to ditch the political rhetoric and be grateful. And I was, at least publically. Privately—and by that I mean without even whispering the words in an empty room—I dreaded the impact a baby would have on my career and marriage. Who the hell was I to be someone’s mother?

I was a kick-ass saleswoman. I found it intoxicating to use femininity and charm to seduce stores into buying more from me than my male competitors. And—this was the heart of it—my career stomped out an innate fear of turning out like my mother, a homemaker who didn’t take care of her home. How much of my persona would be stripped away with a hungry, crying human to tend to? Were Meg and I the reason my mother became what she became?

In a way my fear was justified; Eve changed my life. But it wasn’t the sacrifice I imagined. When she arrived I felt this tremendous call to action, like a soldier going to war, and I was honored to serve. Without acknowledging it, I’d never cared about anyone more than myself, not even Brady. Motherhood enlarged my heart. I found a reserve capacity to love that trumped my initial supply tenfold. I had more to give everyone because I had more to tap into. When I quit, my boss warned that it was the biggest mistake of my life. I told him I certainly hoped he was right. That’d be a damn good life.

Eve arrived at midnight on her due date. When she was young, I kicked off the celebration of her birthday with a gentle kiss as the clock struck twelve. Later, when she reached double digits, I awakened her to tell the story of our labor. I’d sit at the edge of the bed, careful not to disrupt the covers since Eve sleeps naked with sheets tangled around her like a full-body bandage. From the moment she was born, Eve preferred to be nude. When a bottle and diaper change failed, stripping Eve naked to rest in front of an open window saved my sanity. She loved it so much that we pushed the envelope on how old was too old to swim with no bathing suit and walk around the house in only underpants. Brady joked she’d better grow out of the preference before puberty. At six, I finally called it, and we slowly adapted her to society’s expectation of clothing, but she never succumbed to pajamas overnight. She’d wear something right up until bedtime, then strip before jumping under the covers. Don’t get me wrong; she was shy about this penchant and as she grew older she got mad when we teased her about it. An oddity. Brady’s mother suggested I send Eve to a therapist. “Nip it in the bud before she’s old enough to be sleazy,” she cautioned. I replied that there are worse things in life than being comfortable with yourself.

I consider the beginning of Eve’s life the true beginning of mine. Motherhood put to rest a slew of unhealthy anxieties and obsessions. People’s opinion of me became wholly insignificant, while my opinion of me was considered for the first time. No more social climbing. No more following seasonal fashion trends. It was time to find a cause and give back. To become a role model. Eve was the catalyst for everything I’m most proud of. I will not break our birthday tradition; I’ve disappointed her enough already. So here I am, at midnight, telling the familiar story.

It was ten when my water broke. Your father’s plane was supposed to land at eleven-thirty, so I assumed he’d be able to take me to the hospital, but an hour later it was clear you had no intention of accommodating Dad’s travel schedule. We were new to the neighborhood, so I settled for a cab. Your father had gotten his first cell phone two weeks before for this exact occasion. I left a message that he’d probably be a dad by the time he listened to it.

The taxi was stuffy. The driver went faster and faster as my contractions got closer and closer. I tried to space my breathing how they taught at Lamaze, but it felt better to scream, so that’s mostly what I did. Through the pain I pictured you making your way, on your first true adventure.

When we arrived, I thought the driver would stay with me, like they do in the movies, but he took the cash from my shaking hand and sped away. For a brief moment I felt alone, but then you reminded me of your presence. I walked in the waiting room, convinced by the pressure that I’d give birth right there on the gray vinyl couch. I howled deliriously at the thought of it.

You were the world’s fastest delivery. I only pushed for twenty minutes. Your father ran in right as you came out, fists clenched, arms raised, and one eye open. You looked intense but ardent, ready for anything to come. When I saw you I knew I was looking at my life’s purpose.

Eve, you’re still intense, ardent, and ready for anything to come. Happy birthday.

When I finish, Eve has her knees tucked to her chest. We’re embracing; I feel it. I send a burst of energy. As the sensation flushes through her, she’s aware it’s unworldly. I’ll remember that trick, a way to send love without competing with her thoughts.

The next morning Eve wonders whether it was all in her head. On a whim I belt out the words I sang whenever she questioned my love: Ain’t no mountain high enough … ain’t no valley low enough … ain’t no river wide enough … to keep me from getting to you. When the chorus ends, her concentrated face breaks into a smile. She squeezes her knees to her chest one last time, saying good-bye.