For S on Her Birthday

Seven years ago, my S was born. She came into this world much in the same way she lives every day, on her terms. She didn’t wait for her due date; she just came when she was ready to be born, three weeks before we expected her. The day of her birth, she was on her own schedule. Water broke at 4 am, at the hospital at 5:30 am, C-section delivery at 7:37am. We had no bag packed and ready, no plan of who would stay with her big sister, and the next thing we knew, she was here.

Since that day, life with S has been a lot of things, but never dull. She was a sweet and cuddly baby who loved her naps and nursing. She decided very early that bottles were not for her, that only the original milk source would do. When it was time to switch to cow’s milk, she would have none of it. We made do with enriched orange juice and chocolate syrup, since the only milk she was interested in was no longer available to her.

Crawling and walking were much the same way. She wasn’t interested. Crawling wasn’t worth it. If she couldn’t reach something, oh well, she would make do without it. If she did need something, she would cry until one of us would get it for her. Problem solved, no need for her to move. Crawling never did happen. Walking did not begin until 15 ½ months. When she realized how mobility brought freedom, she decided to have as much of both as she could demand. The sweet baby she had been morphed into a pint sized terrorist. Those toddler years were a blur of negotiations, tantrums, offerings, rejections, and occasional truces, but rarely compromises. Well, not on her part. They were difficult years for me, ones when I counted the hours until bedtime, when I abandoned my dislike of spanking, when I became a short order cook and household servant. I lost myself in all that frustration and guilt, and could not understand how thirty pounds of cuteness could make me feel more like a failure than anything else in my life.

And before I knew it, S turned five. Suddenly, she relented. She realized my will had been broken, that somehow she had won. The conflict faded away, and the sweetness that disappeared along with the rolls of baby fat and drool returned, offering a sense of hope and a big sigh of relief. She now happily did chores, wiping counters, sweeping crumbs from the table to the floor, making her bed, sorting the recycling. She enjoyed piano theory and asked for more. She could brush her own teeth and wipe her own ass, when she felt like it. She was growing up, and the combination of her strong personality and deep empathy made her someone I wanted to know.

Over the past two years, she has moved forward, stepped back, and progressed once more. She is concrete in how she deals with tragedy. She giggles like the sound of tiny glass bells tinkling. She is funny, smart, gross, prissy, loving, and hateful all at the same time. She wants to smack your butt and hold your hand. She rages and loves with the same fierceness. She will do what you want her to do, but more as a favor to you, and you cannot contain her.

Her best friend is her big sister E, although they both would deny it if asked. They are opposites in many ways. E was born an old soul, full of wisdom and worry beyond her years, like this is not her first time around. Sarah is a clean slate, a sponge, full of potential and desire, ready to try and do and be. E has remorse, and S has rancor, but somehow they compliment each other. They are the kind of sisters I didn’t know I had until I was grown.

I look at my baby child on this, the first day of her seventh year, at her long legs and gap toothed grin and smiling eyes and sharp tongue, and I am lucky to be her custodian. She has much to teach me, as much as I do her. We will learn from each other. We will laugh and cry and be better people because she is my child and I her mother. I wonder what lessons she has for me this year.