Happy Birthday, Erin

My mother still sends handwritten notes in cursive to me, my siblings, and my children about the day we were born and circumstances surrounding our births.  Details serve as reminders of the extent of anticipation, such as the night my children’s grandparents were watching Cheers at 9:00 P.M. in the waiting room of Martha Jefferson Hospital when our firstborn, Daniel, who was the first grandchild in both of our families, was born on Valentine’s Day in 1985.  My mom includes in the note how my father-in-law, Jack, was nonchalantly reading the newspaper while she paced the floor.  She stopped to shake the paper and say, “How can you just sit there and read the paper?”  I am reminded in phone calls the morning of my birthday that the day I was born was a significant day engrained in her memory.  It was all about me.  I’ve heard the details many times along with accounts in the same conversation about the births of my brother and sister.  For instance, on the day my brother was born the Redskins were playing, and she had to wait to go to the hospital until my dad had the final score.

I wonder if celebrating “THE DAY” we were born is even more significant for the mom (and dad) than for the child.  For you, THE CHILD, it is about the party, the presents, the activity of the event, and the thrill of having a day to celebrate “you” in the present.  For the mom (and dad), it’s about the day life changed forever because of your entrance.   

Life changed the day Erin was born.

Like my mother, I remember the details about the births of each of my four children as well as the day we stood in a Ukrainian courtroom to become Diana’s parents.  I remember the circumstances surrounding labor and delivery.  They were different each time.  I remember the weights of my babies (not the heights), and the times they were born.  I call my boys and tell them the details.  I say, like my mom, “I remember the day you were born.”  I remind them of the exact time that day they will turn the next year older.  I remind them life is better because of their entrance and all that they mean and bring to our lives and to the lives of others.  I remind them of their significance.  I always tear up a bit thinking about who they are now and am overwhelmed in the moment by how dearly I love them.

The day Erin was born was all that and more. 

We went to the Martha Jefferson Hospital in Charlottesville early on November 12, 1998. We passed the school buses unloading at Fluvanna Middle School, where I worked, on Route 15. As with two of her older brothers, Erin was born within a few of hours after our arrival to the hospital. She looked like our other children (who look like Rob) but had a significant tongue thrust that was not at all like our other children. We held her briefly but she needed help breathing. The doctor took her away and did not return for what seemed like a long time. When he did, he took my hand and shared with us his unofficial diagnosis of Down syndrome. He also said a cardiologist was coming to evaluate her.

There was more to report to our families than our 8 lb. baby girl had arrived at 10:20 A.M. on November 12, 1998.

These were the days when babies didn’t room-in full-time with the moms.  So, late that first night when the hallway was quiet, Rob and I heard the metal wheels of the basinets rolling past our room without stopping to deliver Erin.  We got up and went to see her in an isolated part of the nursery where she was hooked up to monitors.  She turned her head toward us when she heard our voices and looked in our eyes when we sang a John Denver song to her as if she’d heard it before.  She knew us.  She was ours. 

We’d had a consult earlier that day with a cardiologist who talked about heart surgery.  She explained Erin would leave the hospital on heart meds and used terms like, “medically fragile”.  Rob left the hospital for awhile to walk and process the news we were given.  He ended up on Charlottesville’s Downtown Mall in the Mud House coffee shop where there was one computer with internet on a back table for public use.  He spent part of the afternoon researching Down syndrome and returned a few hours later full of facts to share with me about what to expect at each phase of Erin’s life.  Throughout Erin’s life, I’ve often thought about the advice my doctor told me that day about parenting a child with Down syndrome.  He simply said, “Just be her mother.”  I’ve understood that to mean to just care for her, learn about her, grow with her, and love her more with each passing day, month, year in the same way I do with my other children.

Each passing year has been marked by a birthday carefully calculated weeks in advance.  Each year was very much the same and often had the same types of gifts, including tents…tents that attached to beds, pup tents in the yard, tents filled with blankets in bedrooms and family rooms, a “must have” purple tent (found my MeeMaw after an exhaustive search), tents to sleep in and tents in which to retreat for cuddling and calming down.  Along with tents came Disney sleeping bags and princess blankets, pink and purple flashlights, disco balls and other night lights that would shine stars on the ceiling of her room, microphones attached to karaoke machines, CDs, and CD players. She would tape pictures of young teen idols on her bedroom walls from magazines and perform their songs with the rolling lights of the disco balls circulating across her ceiling to the tunes of Hannah Montana and One Direction.

 The most special part of Erin’s birthday was the reveal of the chocolate cake lit with candles burning and lights turned out for “the birthday song”, which was sung slowly and often twice just because she loved it so much and we loved feeling her joy as we sang to her.

As challenging as life could be with Erin, and honestly, as challenging as life could be in general, the joy Erin felt and exuded in the most typical experiences of everyday life equaled and often exceeded any measure of frustration we attached to the same typical experiences that we carried into our home.  She had a convincing way of diverting our attention to something worth celebrating in the moment…a cartoon clip, a picture she colored and proudly waved in our faces, just waving in our faces and laughing, pressing a funny face close to ours, singing, or sharing an Erin “joke”.  Being ridiculous for a few minutes with Erin in the moment always lightened the angst in our load.

And in the ways Erin stayed the same year after year, we found ourselves changing.  Instead of Erin finding us as we wandered home each day and rallying for our attention with her jokes or silly songs, we looked for her and prompted her to tell them and to sing to us and with us.  Without even realizing it, we sought out her levity of spirit, would snicker at something she’d say, and go find another family member to share it with.  We still do that now when we get together as a family seeking the part of her that added something special to each of us and made us more able to keep perspective.  Those silly times we talk about bring laughter and the same super special feeling she brought to our hearts in the moment.

So, today, I’ve thought about the things Erin loved about birthdays–the cake, the candles, the song, the lights dancing on the ceiling—and I’ve felt that special feeling for the girl who brought joy into our lives and reminded us to laugh at the ordinary.

The best part of Erin’s birthday was to be a part of it.