Twenty one years ago you woke me up at 3 AM. I was not prepared for you, a month before you were due and upside down in the womb. I can still remember everything from that night. Waking up wet crying out, "Goddamnit! My water broke" in total disbelief and dismay; your Dad groggily asking what that meant and your brother's cheerful little answer from the next room, "That means Caleb is coming out!" Remember the story? How he hopped out of bed and began packing a little bag of toys to go to the hospital, including his harmonica so that he could play you a song?
I remember the call to the midwife. When I wailed that I did not want a C-section she took a firm voice with me and said, "This is not about what you imagined or might have wanted. This is how and when this baby wants to come and we are going to make sure that he gets here safe and sound. You need to let go of everything else and listen to him, now." Those words resonate around me in this dark room tonight. I remember the way I sank down into my body then, telling you, "OK little Caleb, here we go!" It is 21 years later, 3 AM, and it is just me in the dark here with you.
The trip to the hospital was short. Your Dad drove so carefully and slowly. I remember that the pools of light from the streetlights slid by like a dream. I remember the private nature of labor, when the first pain hit and I gasped and swam deep down inside myself to try to connect with you. And I remember that I decided to trust, and I know that made all the difference. It was a beautiful birth. Three hours, three pushes and you slipped bravely into the world your own way.
Twenty one years ago you floated safe in my body and I imagined you. I could not see you, nor hear you. I spoke to you but you could not answer. Tonight, I imagine you. I cannot see you or hear you. But I will try to trust again that you knew where you needed to go and that this terrible ache that I feel is my own painful journey, not yours. I like to think that you slipped as easily from this life as you did from my body. I bore the pain for you once and I can do it again.
Tonight I will wrap up my birthday present to you in all this milky moonlight spilling in the window, in tears of sorrow and of gratitude for all you gave me. This gift I am wrapping for you is my promise that I will not abandon joy. I will not spread more bitterness or anger or despair or apathy into the world that hurled so much of that at you in your short stay. I will honor your immense capacity for joy with mine. I will honor your courage with as much of my own as I can muster. I will honor your complexity by keeping an open mind, open heart and open eyes. I will honor even your despair, that little boat you sailed away in, trusting that it took you somewhere that your spirit knew it needed to go.
I will never again say, "Happy Birthday, Caleb." But I can say this: I am happy to have held you for as long as I could. I am happy to have shared all there is to share between a mother and child: all the intimacy, the struggles, the miracle of carrying and of letting go. I will be carrying you and letting you go forever.
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