Great Revelations Come in Small Packages

I wrote this for the first issue of LiveWell. Whenever I think about little Sean and hear his adorable voice over the phone, this article comes to mind, and it is the most honest and heartfelt article I've ever written. It had been edited for space in the issue, but this is the full and unabridged version (I love saying that).

Great Revelations Come in Small Packages

3 August 2003: I am holding a small, soft little person in my arms, bundled snugly in his white hospital swaddling cloth. He had just opened his eyes to the world two days ago in a hospital in California, and while I fancy that he stares at me, he will see things only in shades of black and white for at least another few weeks.

No, this is not my baby – little Sean is my sister’s newborn son. He is the result of my sister and brother-in-law’s decision to start sharing their life with a beautiful new person. He was conceived among much worry and apprehension. The experience of conception for a woman with metabolic syndrome is never an easy one and is fraught with doubts.

January 2002: My sister is 29 years old when she discovers that she has metabolic syndrome. My heart sinks as I hear her voice over the phone, telling me that her life is changed forever, at that young age. A month later, she miscarries her first child.

There is nothing like a chance foregone that sets our resolve to do things right the next time. For months after the miscarriage, I get to hear about the rigorous regime she has set for herself to get into good shape for the next pregnancy. A treadmill has made its appearance in her home and is the source of her daily exercise. Always one to love food, she summons all her willpower to carefully restrict her diet. In no time, her blood sugar levels are normalised. Within the year, the bun is in the oven.

The Whole Nine Months

My mother has a rather annoying habit of making me guess what my birthday present is a week in advance but refusing to tell me if I’m right. Nature reminds me of exactly that – if it’s something good, you jolly well hone your patience, because you are in for a long wait. Say, nine months.

Meanwhile, nature entertains you while you wait. Having been a mother figure to me most of my life, it is very strange indeed to witness my sister’s usually level-headed disposition unravel as her pregnancy unfurls. Elation. Depression. Urination. Constipation. Indigestion. Indignation. Irritation. And those are just the beginning.

May 2003: Right about the time she starts to tell me about her increasing back aches, I start to wonder why on earth anyone would want to go through this. In my early twenties, I have just gotten my life on a steady track, with independence in my hand enabling me to finally start living life for myself. The sight of my sister’s growing belly and her physical and emotional fluctuations instil more than just fascination. It also instils fear. Fear of losing freedom, fear of pain, fear of unsettling changes in life, and, most of all, fear of losing the rest of my life to the life-long occupation of motherhood from which there will be no rest.

I ask my sister if she is afraid. Yes, she said, she is afraid of the possibility of the various health problems a baby might have. No – I mean, is she afraid of motherhood? She ponders this for a moment before saying, “No. You were an awfully difficult kid. I’ve had enough practice.” Although miffed at the backhanded reply, I am amazed at how prepared she seems to be, and how, in spite of her hormonal joyrides, her expectant happiness carries a sense of purpose and serenity.

In between fulfilling my sister’s need for company on the phone on sleepless nights and excitedly shopping for baby clothes, more questions start creeping into my mind. Will she and I stay as close as we have always been when her time and attention becomes focussed on bringing up a child? How much time will we be able to spend together during my yearly visits to her home in California? Will my nephew like me or even remember me? How will having a kid in the family change our way of life?

There is no hope of answering any of these questions yet. I will just have to wait.

The Eagle has Landed

2.00am, 31 July 2003: I awake to the persistent sound of the phone ringing. A few moments after it stops ringing, my bleary eyed parents burst into my room, brandishing the phone. Dazed, I listen to the ear piece.

“Sis, I’m going into labour. NOW!”

The family flies into a frenzy, the news having come two weeks before the expected date. The next morning, my dad is plastered on the phone, desperately trying to bring our flights forward. My mother and I are packing our bags as quickly as our hands allow. In less than two days, we have crossed 13,673 kilometres to meet the newest member of our family.

2 August 2003: I walk into the hospital room. I push aside the curtain shielding the bed from the door. I know in that instant that I will never forget the vision that greets me.

My sister sits on the bed, smiling at us as we enter. Tom, my brother-in-law, stands by her side, beaming as he says hello. A tiny bundle sits on her lap, wrapped in a white hospital cloth and wearing a soft little blue hat. I stand there for a moment, feeling my heart overflow.

I bend over to give little Sean his first kiss from his aunt. He barely stirs from his slumber as my lips graze his forehead. Absolute joy fills the room as everyone fawns over the beautiful little boy, and wonder at how such a small person can give so much joy without needing to do anything, by just being.

It is in that moment that I understand how all those months of pain, discomfort and effort are worth it.

The Road Goes Ever On and On

1 August 2004: I hold the camera up, hoping for a smile from the birthday boy, but the birthday boy is apparently more than a little upset from being woken from his nap, and utterly oblivious to the purpose of the festivities around him. It is a strange birthday picture. Gathered behind the table holding the cake is a crowd of people grinning and laughing at the camera, surrounding a pint sized boy bawling his eyes out on his first birthday. Still, no one looking at the picture could possibly mistake the joyousness of the scene.

The journey with my sister in her new-found motherhood has shown me that the true worth of being a parent does not lie only in Kodak moments such as that in the hospital room. It takes never-ending devotion, self-sacrifice and infinite love to bring up a baby.

My sister tells me about Sean’s dislike for sleep and fondness for throwing fits at meal times. She tells me about his stubborn tendency to climb into the forbidden kitchen. She tells me about the little whining sounds he makes in the wee hours, depriving her of a good night’s sleep. And each time she tells me these things, I almost feel the desire to swear off having children.

And that’s when I hear his voice over the phone, babbling in his secret baby language, giggling at some private amusement. I look at his chubby smile in his photograph and remember how his hair smells and how he squeals in laughter when I carry him and spin him around. Then I remember why mothers crawl through pain, depression, stress and fatigue, to travel with this perfect little person in their journey through life.

Hey, we all survive the nine months. What’s another few decades?