The following was written at different times over the course of Auden's first year of life and was revised in the week of his first birthday. I have neglected writing about my life since moving back to New Orleans five years ago and I feel immense guilt for not writing - or completing my writings - about this amazing little boy who was born 22 months ago, changing our family in ways that I have yet to fully process (mostly because I am busy and tired). I adore this beautiful child completely. If I die before he can read the many words I plan to write about him, please tell him.
February 2017
He entered the world with a head full of red hair.
I remember him crying a big cry as the midwife lifted his tiny, slippery body into my hands. His birth was explosive and quick. He arrived at 9:27 p.m., two hours after we'd left home for the hospital. No sooner had they rolled me into a delivery room in a wheelchair than I stood up, pushed one painful push and there he came, falling into the quick hands of my midwife and my husband.
Auden Flynn Myers, 6 lbs. 9 oz., 18.75 inches, was an adorable little guy with skinny legs, soft melon-colored sideburns reaching toward his cheeks and a cluster of white pimples just under the left side of his mouth. His hair was just light enough that we weren't at first willing to proclaim it as red, even as my best friend, Kathleen, insisted in the delivery room that, "That boy has red hair, people!" (She probably didn't say it that way at the time, but it's how we summarize her thoughts when we talk about it today.) The red so far has stayed, much to the delight of my Irish mother and her three sisters, all of whom have red hair and come from a long line of redheads. Each time I hold Auden, I find myself pressing my cheek against his soft, warm head, kissing his baby hair and stroking it with my face, my kiss, my chin, my hands. It's been a year this week, and still I have this urgency to feel his head against my cheek so that I don't forget how this feels.
His five- (now-six-) year-old sister, has been dancing in and out of his room, his face, his view since we first brought him home. Her constant motion, her volume and flare has served as a reminder how quickly he, too, would be speaking, singing, dancing, objecting.
Baby Auden wore a furrowed brow for much of the first two months of his life, at which point he started smiling and cooing when spoken to, melting my heart with each open-mouthed grin. He knew immediately where to find the milk and nursed with such skill for the first few months that he managed to climb up the charts from being in the 30th percentile for weight at birth to being in the 90th percentile, according to his two-month check-up: 14.1 lbs., 22.5 inches.
He spent his first two months sleeping on and with me, his arms sprawled across my chest, his legs tucked under him or splayed to either side of my belly. I loved being right there when he woke at night, feeding him and then falling straight back to sleep with him. Our naps together sometimes ended with a few strands of my hair wrapped around his sticky palms and fingers, the side of his face red and hot from where it was pressed against my chest and his hair moist from my body heat. By Easter, he learned to enjoy being swaddled and started learning to sleep on his own in his crib — a full room away from momma.
His eyes got larger and more expressive over time. Those first few weeks, he stared with wonderment and sometimes skepticism as his sister hung over his bouncy chair or grabbed his hand, speaking to him in a high-pitched voice, reminding him who she is. "I'm Aida! I'm your big sister," she would say, always laughing at whatever he does in response.
If he was skeptical, I didn't blame him. Our first three months together felt like they were haphazardly patched together with whatever last bits of scotch tape were on the roll. Steve was teaching on contract at Texas Christian University, so he felt the need to return to his duties there after being home for only the first 10 days of Auden's life. His weekly commute to Fort Worth meant Auden, Aida and I were on our own for three to four nights a week. Had it not been for my mother coming each night at bath and bedtime, I cannot envision how it would have played out. Aida needed my attention. Auden needed my attention. It felt like neither were getting everything they needed and I felt exhausted and inadequate with the gnawing sense of guilt that both children were suffering because of it.
Before I became a mother, I always thought I wanted several children. But after having Aida, the reality of parenthood left me wondering how exactly I could pull off mothering even one more. With Aida, I was all in, pouring nearly all of my attention into her and her development. I would regularly interview new mothers of two -- often strangers, even -- about about the experience of going from one to two kids. Sometimes, I got the big shoulder shrug: "You just do it." It still sounded hard. It was hard to see how I could squeeze in a second being who would require the same amount of devotion, attention and love. Yet, my irrational desire for a second baby grew over time from a low "what if" flame to a raging "gotta get pregnant" fire. I'm not sure Steve understood how badly was I longing for a baby. And I don't think he fully understood my grief over the prospect that it might not come to pass. I wasn't sure I would be able to conceive. I'm over 40. Steve was traveling. Life was already exhausting. Every monthly period felt like a reason to mourn.
But then it happened.
Auden. My sweet, sweet boy.
