A few years ago, L. surprised us out of the blue by telling us that the happiest day of his life was when T. was born. He then went on to recount in great and startling detail the facts of T.'s birth ending with his first sight of her, as she lay between my legs. L.'s long-term memory never ceases to blow me away, time and time again. He witnessed her birth, after all--right there, up close and personal, while Clifford the Big Red Dog played on the wall-mounted hospital room television. He's never talked much about her birth before. He was, after all, only 3 1/2 years old at the time. We hadn't planned on his being in the room when T. was born, but she came ten days early and we had no family or neighbors we could count on. What could we do?
I was surprised and happy to hear L.'s pronouncement, because I remember things so differently. I remember laboring for hours to M.A.S.H. reruns in the basement, while Scott frantically made provisions for his classes. I remember waking L. up at 2:00 a.m. so we could all drive to the hospital. I remember how small he seemed, standing on the white step stool to use the bathroom, the window above a dark square that seemed so exciting and mysterious to him. I remember holding his hand as we walked into the hospital and feeling my heart crumble a little, with overwhelming and protective love for him, and also in anticipation of meeting this new person, who would soon be in the world. L. carried his best teddy bear and a toy doctor's kit into the hospital and was all nervous excitement--until, that is, he realized it wasn't a game. He took one look at the hospital room, and the IV in my hand and said, lips shaking, "I want to go home."
We couldn't though. He was so small, so unprepared. He stayed up all night with us as I labored, and as the doctor and nurses came and went.
I remember his eyes wide with worry and fear when I couldn't help myself and screamed out (the epidural never took) near the end of it all. I remember not even noticing he was in the room when it came to pushing T. out. I remember the stab of guilt I felt for days afterward, when I thought about this fact.
I remember how confused L. seemed when he saw T. swaddled for the first time, and when we settled her on his lap for the requisite brand-new sibling photo, he looked at me, eyes half-afraid, half-amazed.
I think I projected a lot onto him--maybe my Mama worries about how my first-born would adjust; maybe my own fears, my own pain, my own concerns, my own baggage.
Recently, at a meeting with L.'s new therapist, we talked about T. and L.'s relationship with her. We talked about some of the issues we face as a family, trying to help T. understand L.'s behavior, and trying to help L. build a better relationship with his sister. L. listened while the therapist talked about her own sibling issues with her sister. He listened while I outlined, haltingly, how difficult things can be at home. I tried to paint a realistic picture while remaining sensitive, always, to L.'s presence there in the room, on the couch next to me.
"Do you have anything you want to add?" The therapist asked L.
"You know, this is going to sound strange," he said. "But the happiest day of my life was the day that T. was born."
And that was all he had to say about it, and all he wanted to say the whole rest of the session. But I still never doubt the truth of it, not even for a minute.