Birthdays and Blooms
My eldest’s birthday is coming up and Forrest was lamenting that the usual spring heat wave in Seattle hadn’t happened yet. Because of the enormity of becoming parents, we always remember the small details from the weeks around her birth. I remember lying in bed, seeing the plum trees blossoming. Forrest, giving directions to our pediatrician by telling her to “turn right at the giant forsythia.” And our first walk as a little family, down the block to see the magnolia flowers that had just opened up.
The weather is due to change this weekend, and with it, all of those trees will wake up, albeit a few weeks later than we remember. It’s funny, how some weeks stick with you and others fly by. How some years stick with you and others fly by. I know that there’s a ton of science behind that, about novelty and emotional salience and core memories, but that doesn’t hit me the same as remembering leaving the birth center with my baby in the pouring rain with Forrest saying, “It’s great day for ducks,” while trying to get the carseat into the back of our tiny Geo.
Since then, every time I’m out in the pouring rain, I think of that saying and I think of that moment. These small things, they mark time and mark our lives and shape us by connecting seemingly disparate events - a rainy day and becoming a mother — in such a way that some part of us is forever changed.
It’s kind of scary. We have no control over those associations and while they might seem small, I’ve realized that the little things can really add up over time. Like all small but consistent pressures, they can accumulate. Just this morning, I was telling that eldest daughter that, because of that fateful spring when she was born, her birthday signals the coming of spring to me. More than that, really. The turning of the year, from dark gloom into bright possibility. Every year her birthday comes, gardening starts, the clocks change, and our very housebound winter life begins to open up.
It’s such a strong association for me that it’s become a bit of a metaphor. Because having her, becoming a parent, felt much the same. The pregnancy was hard, and so was the first year of her life, but it was the turning of our family’s story too. From rootless young adults to a trio, then quintet, determined to create a safe and warm home that we can always return to. I’m not sure we’re there yet. In fact, I’m almost certain we aren’t. But no matter how it ends, the story turned on that moment.
And it started with taking her home in the pouring rain. With “a great day for ducks.” And to stretch the metaphor - my connections are a constant reminder that the moment the year turns from dark to light is rarely the moment the sun starts to shine. The turning happens before the sun comes out. When all the buds are preparing to open and the ground is thawing out and the daffodils peek out of the muddy soil. So even in the years where spring is taking a little longer to start, I’m reminded that it’s almost here and I can wait just that much longer.
