Where Babies Come From

Today (or I should say yesterday, because, yet again, it is 2 am and I'm still wide awake) marked a major milestone in my life. Ten years ago, I saw a baby born. Up close and personal.

I'd never seen a real birth before, not even in video; after having seen one, I am fairly certain that I will be content to never see one again.

For the record, I should explain that I have no memory of ever wanting a child of my own. Perhaps in the early days of my precious Baby Boo, having tea parties of Coca-Cola and M&Ms with my mom, I may have imagined myself a mother, but I don't remember it.

I played with dolls, of course, but mainly I was interested in dressing them, arranging their domiciles, planning their adventures. I don't remember ever changing a diaper even in play, though I know I had a doll that wet herself. In retrospect, I can't think of anything more disgusting than a doll that can pee on you.

I first confessed my lack of interest in breeding to my gynecologist. This information got a raised eyebrow and dismissal. Throughout years of painful, heavy periods, I got the same reaction every time I brought up a hysterectomy.

"You're young," the doctors -- first male, then female -- would say. "You don't want to make a decision like that now."

"Yes, I do," I assured them. But they never took me seriously. It would be years before one agreed to remove my baby-making plumbing.

In the beginning, I suppose I simply didn't find children younger than myself very interesting. Then again, I wasn't much exposed to babies. The ones I did come in contact with seemed very dull. They just slept, and cried, and waved little fists in the air. They couldn't hold a crayon, nor could they read Nancy Drew. They didn't get my knock-knock jokes, either. People cooed and prattled about their cuteness, but I just didn't see it. As someone else once quipped, they all looked like Winston Churchill to me.

A neighbor who lived behind us asked me to babysit for the first time when I was fifteen or so. If the baby didn't appeal to me, the money certainly did. It was only when time came to change a diaper that I realized I had no idea how to do it.

I called my mother in a panic. She offered to walk me through it, until I blurted out that the phone wouldn't reach. When she found out I'd left the baby on the changing table in the bedroom, she came running.

The diaper was filled with greenish-brown goo and the most disgusting odor ever to assault my nostrils. I would not babysit again until I was in my mid-twenties, and then only out of desperation.

I spent six months as a pseudo-nanny to a three year old boy. And while I was charmed by some of his antics, I was more exasperated by just how childish a child could be. I could not go to the bathroom alone. He would play contentedly by himself until I picked up a book; then he turned into a little dictator, demanding this, that and the other.

By the time his father came home at 5:30, I was exhausted. I could not imagine how anyone could deal with a child 24/7 -- or why in the hell they would want to.

I realized that I was far too selfish to ever raise a child without the application of serious drugs or duct tape. I suspected neither method was approved by Dr. Spock. Child-rearing for me would probably involve social workers and possible jail time.

And to all of my friends who have reproduced, I confess: I suffered through every one of your endless baby showers. Only peer pressure and the promise of cake compelled my reluctant attendance. Baby pictures made me wince, trying to come up with something nice to say that wouldn't betray my complete indifference. When coworkers brought their babies to work, and everyone would crowd around, clamoring for their turn to hold the bundle of joy -- I would hide.

One of the worst fights I ever had with my ex exploded out of his refusal to attend a co-ed baby shower. "You go," he said. "You women eat that stuff up."

I wasn't angry that he refused to go with me. I was furious at his assumption that my possession of ovaries would draw me inexorably to events involving the gifting of gruesome things like Diaper Genies and breast pumps.

Life experience was also teaching me that what little maternal instinct I possessed would be used up in raising the men in my life.

Don't think that I don't respect parenting. My time as a nanny gave me a deep respect for the self-sacrifice and challenges of child-rearing. I just didn't want to be personally involved.

I witnessed the lives of friends completely devoured by the arrival of tiny, squalling and usually damp little creatures with a voracious appetite for time and attention. Their once-stimulating conversation was suddenly reduced to an endless string of baby-talk, the complaints of sleep deprivation interspersed with tales of their child's latest display of brilliance. Children were friendship-killers.

Neither do I dislike all children. But I look at them as I would any adult. I like some and loathe others. I believe restaurants should provide no-children sections. Call me heartless and inhuman, but I simply do not enjoy spending money on meals eaten with a small stranger hanging over the back of the booth opposite me.

When a close friend -- who'll remain nameless lest what I'm about to say embarrass her -- became pregnant for the first time, I experienced the first twinges of interest in the process. This was inspired by the depth of my love for her, and the idea that I could indulge whatever maternal impulses I might harbor in someone else's offspring. I could enjoy the bright spots, then hand the kid back over to their parents before I started looking for the duct tape.

I missed the first delivery because of distance. On the second, I was in attendance.

I approached it with no small amount of trepidation. My perception of child-birth was formed by "Gone With the Wind." All I could picture was Melanie's desperate, sweat-drenched and moaning ordeal that looked like hell on a bad day. I would have rather faced the entire Union army than go through that myself.

It was unnerving to stand around a friend with her legs spread and private parts on display. It was a tad more intimate than I wanted to be, especially in the presence of her mother, brother and husband. It was just weird.

I was surprised at how little pain she seemed to experience. Apparently something called an "epidermal" worked miracles. There was none of the screaming and profanity I expected. Just some sweating and grunting. The aptness of the term "labor" was clear.

Then, abruptly, a smooth, fleshy spot appeared between her splayed legs. I watched in a mixture of amazement and horror as a small human HEAD came into view.

Oh, my God, I thought. There's a person coming out of her. A very small person, but a person none-the-less, smeared with what looked like a combination of blood and vaseline.

A tiny arm popped out, and I could only think of "Aliens."

It was both the most amazing and disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Both awe-inspiring and slightly grotesque.

All I could do was stare, mouth gaping like a village idiot, as another human being joined the world. It was like a magic trick, and I could not figure out how it was possible. David Copperfield had nothing on my friend. How could a woman push another living being into creation? How could there be nothing but a swollen belly and hairy cleft one moment, and a whole person the next?

That person is named Emily. Yesterday she turned 10. She's grown into an interesting little human, charmingly imperious at times, utterly confident as she strides through the world. I see both her parents -- people I love as I love few people -- in her features and her character. I am enormously interested in watching her grow.

Emily has two brothers, and they too hold an appeal that no other children can claim on my heart.

But Emily, to me, is the most special child in all the known world. I saw her come into this world. I was there the day she was born. I wouldn't trade that for anything....

But I am still glad I chose not to have my own. There's not enough duct tape in the world.

A Few Thoughts on Mortality and Three Year Olds....

Friday, March 5, 2010.

Wednesday, I voluntarily got up at the ungodly hour of 7 am. There are few people for whom I would do this without having a gun put to my head. But on this day, I did it for Kelly and Elaina.

You should understand that for many, many years, Kelly and I roamed the streets like Thelma and Louise -- only without the guns, attempted rape and a half-naked Brad Pitt. You couldn't really call it shopping, because in the beginning, neither of us had much of anything to spend. Later, a lot of it was just running errands -- quite mundane stuff -- but it was always fun.

It became even more important when we were no longer roommates. These excursions gave us a chance to catch-up, and often a much-needed break from our significant others.

Over the last couple of years, such roaming has been seriously curtailed by life's crappy details. So I was happy to be on the streets with Kelly once more, even though our errand on this day was a heavy one.

We were going to pick up her mother's ashes.

First, however, I had to face off with a worthy adversary: Kelly's three year-old, Ben.

Don't get me wrong. Ben is a sweetheart - and I don't say that about every kid. I am not one of those people who go all mushy over babies and small children. But Ben is sweet and happy, particularly when you consider that in the last year he's spent a good bit of time at Vanderbilt's Children's Hospital being treated for leukemia. But he's only seen me a few times since babyhood. Once, when I visited him in the hospital and brought him a Funkee Monkee -- which has permanently made me, in Ben's mind, "The Monkey Lady." Then at the Tomato Festival when the poor little guy threw up in the middle of my craft booth, something that is bound to be a less than stellar memory for him.

I'm sure his reaction to me had a lot to do with the fact that his mother hasn't been around as much in the last couple of days, and the potentially confusing news that his beloved Me-me has gone to heaven. Kelly's not sure just how well Ben understands death. He has commented that "Me-me is running around heaven holding Pe-Paw's hand."

(This comment made Kelly nearly fall in the floor laughing. You'd have to have known both Elaina and Kelly's father, the notoriously insane Herschel, to understand just how absurd the image of them cavorting hand-in-hand through Paradise really is.)

At first, Ben seemed happy to see me. Much happier than the family dachshund, Doxy, at any rate, who barked nearly incessantly at me as soon as I stepped through the door. But Ben and I discussed his monster trucks, the cartoons he was watching, and his older brother's unfortunate decision to follow in his father's misguided footsteps as a Volunteer fan. (Ben is the only one of Kelly's children to Roll Tide, and the poor guy is forced to share a room painted Tennessee Orange. Shudder.)

But as Kelly was buckling him into the back seat of her Saturn, and I got into the passenger seat, Ben made his feelings clear.

"No! She goes in her car! Make her go in her car!"

You should also understand that this was not said maliciously, but with a happy rolling giggle. He seemed quite delighted.

"Ben, don't be rude," Kelly admonished. "She's going with us."

"I don't want her to," Ben insisted. (Giggle.)

"Can't I ride with you and your mom, Ben?" I asked, smiling to show I wasn't taking any of this personally, even though I was. Just a little.

"No!" There were more rolling peals of laughter from Ben.

A little ways down the road, at a stop light, Ben told his mother to "Go!"

"We can't go yet," Kelly said in that utterly imperturbable, endlessly patience tone of the World's Best Mother.

"Why?" Ben demanded happily.

"Because it's not our turn yet," she explained. "The other cars will hit us."

"Make her get out!" Ben exclaimed gleefully, pointing at me. "Make her get out so a car will hit her!"

I was torn between astonished laughter and a desire to throw something at the little emperor in the back seat.

I was reminded of his older brother, Christopher, who is now an unbelievable twelve. (How the hell did he get to be twelve? Who gave him permission to be twelve??)

Between the ages of two and four, Christopher loathed me. Probably because nearly every time he saw me, Mommy would leave with me to do our Thelma and Louise thing. He cried at the very sight of me. When we took him with us, he was cranky and (I am not exaggerating) downright antagonistic towards me. I bought him a soda, of which he refused to let me have a sip. He crawled under the table at a restaurant and tried to reach into my purse -- prompting me to act like I was three and slap at his sneaky little hand -- which in turn set him into sobs of outrage. It wasn't pretty.

So I was at least pleased that Ben was still giggling, in spite of his desire to see me smeared across the highway.

We got to his daycare and Kelly got him out of the car.

"I'm staying in the car, Ben," I told him cheerfully. "Don't worry."

Ben just giggled, then raced his mother to the door.

Kelly and I went to her mother's house to check in with her roommate, Claudia. Claudia was feeling the strain of the last few days, and said she was too tired to make the trip to the mortuary. While this was probably true, I think Claudia also wanted me and Kelly to have some time together. She knew that our having a little Thelma and Louise time would have made Elaina happy.

Elaina had been worried for the past couple of years that Kelly and I were drifting apart. She prodded Kelly repeatedly, and she called me about it a couple of times. "I know ya'll are both busy, but you need to make time."

Kelly asked my advice on how to word the obituary. She didn't want to say "Elaina Taylor Burch died" -- that sounded so cold -- nor did she like the euphemistic "passed away."

"I don't want to put in some ordinary, depressing obituary," Kelly said. "That's not who Mom was."

I told her I'd read a few obits that said, "So-and-So has gone on to his heavenly reward." And we both burst into laughter.

"Shuffled off this mortal coil" had the same effect.

"I wish I could just say she kicked the bucket," Kelly said. "Mom would like that, but other people might get offended."

"You think?" More laughter.

"You could always say, 'she has made forceful podiatric contact with a metal pail,'" I offered. "But I vote for shuffling off the mortal coil. Very poetic."

"Mom would be so pissed," Kelly laughed. "She'd come back to haunt me."

"Consider it a last joke on your mom," I said.

"Should we be having a good time doing this?" Kelly asked, sobering.

"Sure. Because it would make your mom happy."

"I know."

A box of ashes is amazingly heavy. Just a white cardboard container, with a wooden box inside. A wooden box full of all that remains in the physical realm of a good and wonderful human being.

"I guess I should put her in the floorboard," Kelly said when we got back in the car. "I wouldn't want her to slide around...."

I didn't tell Kelly then but I had a sudden flash back to a Monty Python reunion show, where they brought out an urn full of Graham Chapman's ashes, and placed it on one of the chairs with them. Of course, before the end of the show, Idle managed to knock over the urn, and Cleese brought out a dust buster to vacuum them up. It was hysterical and irreverent and would have made Chapman laugh. I realize now I should have told Kelly about it.

The plan is that Kelly and the rest of the family will take Elaina's ashes down to Gulf Shores, a place that Elaina loved passionately. And since Kelly still hasn't figured out what to do with her father's ashes, Herschel is going, too. Elaina had already told Kelly she didn't mind.

Though Kelly does think that her daughter Emily's idea to mix the two together is a bit much. There is a high probability for some kind of combustible chemical reaction.

We went to lunch and then to Hobby Lobby. No matter how much time has passed since we've seen each other, we pick up right where we left off. That's the wonderful part of friendship.

Then it was time to pick up Ben. Kelly transferred Elaina to the other side of the floorboard, commenting that it probably wasn't nice to let your child rest his feet on his grandmother's ashes.

I was again grateful that I have chosen not to have children. How do you explain a white cardboard box to your kids? What do you tell them about death and the afterlife if you're not sure there is one, or what form it might take? You can't tell a kid that that you believe the spark of our soul goes on somehow, somewhere, even if it's just back into the ebb and flow of all creation. Running hand-in-hand with Pe-Paw through the clouds sounds so much more comprehensible and more comforting. I don't envy Kelly having to deal with this along with her own grief.

"Not her again!" Ben exclaimed when he saw me. "Make her get out."

He turned and ran about twenty feet down the sidewalk.

"Ben! Ben, come back here right now."

More giggles as Ben raced back and forth.

"You are about to be in trouble, Ben!"

Finally, he came back to the car, but refused to get in. He made a sort of squealing sound when Kelly picked him up. He struggled not to be put into his car seat. He was still laughing, but his feet were kicking the door as he hollered: "I don't want to go with her! No! Make her get out!"

I burst into mock sobs and sniffles.

"See what you've done, Ben?" Kelly asked. "You hurt her feelings."

Ben was still kicking.

"Don't you want to take me back to my car?" I asked him, hoping it would pacify him to know I was going to leave soon.

"She can walk! Make her walk!"

Apparently, he wasn't even going to speak to me directly, only issue orders to his mother about "her."

"She might get hit by a car," Kelly said, matter-of-factly, but beginning to show a tiny throbbing vein in her forehead.

"I want her to get hit by a car!" Giggle. Giggle.

Thelma and Louise didn't have kids. Of course, neither did they have their mother's ashes in the floorboard. But I do have Ben's permission to come to dinner sometime soon.

Elaina would like that, I'm sure.