17 April, These Years Later

Again, and, for me, the 59th time, the calendar has turned to April 17th, and this time a Saturday.

Eighteen years ago, on a Friday, a very good and Good Friday, Karen and I welcomed Dónal, as in Dónal Óg (Dónal the younger, in Irish), the lad who to this day remains the youngest of our brood.

We lived then in northern Vermont, and it snowed the night before what would be this particular lad’s birthday.

By itself, that would not have been a problem, given that his birth, like that of the other four before his, was planned. As much as anyone can plan, anyway, a home birth. With a midwife doing, well, the midwifing.

But again, it snowed. And it snowed. And still it snowed. All through the night.

By the time the midwife and her assistant arrived, it had taken them an hour or more longer than the usual hour to get to our home from theirs, and by then there were eight inches of new snow on the ground.

But, happily, they arrived—arrived, as it turned out, much sooner than would this latest son, who, let’s face it, saw fit to yo-yo on his umbilical cord for many of the delayed hours of his eventual 14-hour entrance to the world.

Now, do keep in mind that Karen and I back then were no strangers to long labors.

After all, our first child, our very first child, Declan, said hello only after 43 hours—yes, 43 hours, as in, yes, 43 hours—of labor.

To this day, I tell anyone who will listen of the walks that Karen and I took during those ineluctably memorable 43 hours, walks along the mostly wooded Potomac bike trail in Alexandria, Virginia, where we then lived.

In the course of those walks (again, we’re talking 43 hours of labor—yes, 43 unforgettable hours—and lots of walks), any number of folks, whether jogging, walking or cycling, passed us. And many of those folks had to be witness to Karen—the breadth of her belly signaling her obvious condition and her just-as-obvious distress—doubling over with contractions, me at her side, both of us in the woods, either and both of us far, far from the hospital at which any of those witnesses would have assumed we belonged.

So, go ahead.

Imagine yourself as one of those joggers, your earbuds plugged then into your pre-iPod Walkman, and you, skipping footfall by footfall, along that path, only to see this all-too-evidently gravid woman hunkered over in pain on your jogging path, your jogging path, deep into the woods, nowhere near a hospital. And all at once you’re thinking, “What the hell is that woman doing here, and what’s with that guy holding her hand and now and then cradling her shoulders and telling her to breathe, just breathe!”

I joked later—and have done so many times since—that our first son, sensing his parents’ liberal proclivities (remember, this was 1982), was braced, arms and legs akimbo in utero, vowing, “Reagan’s president. I’m not coming out. I’m not coming out until the odds are in my favor!”

But we’re talking April 17th now, in 2010 now, and we're talking the fifth of those five kids.

That kid, that son, that youngest and good son, Dónal, did, indeed, enter the world on a cushion of eight inches of snow—and, yes, in mid-April and in northern Vermont—did have those hands that touched him first be those midwives’ hands, did do without a first name (another story in itself, especially then, especially in wee Peacham, Vermont) for a week, maybe more, did become the occasion for evening meals for at least a week, maybe more, from the same neighbors who wondered after the kid’s name, and to whom, to this day, Karen and I are still grateful.

And now that same Dónal is eighteen—that son, our youngest son, is eighteen.

And Karen (forgive me, Karen, for reminding you of the painfully obvious) and I are eighteen years older than we were then.

And, God, we were so young then: you, Karen; me, Karen; the other and older kids, Karen.

But this piece is meant for that son Dónal, born this April 17th, those 18 years ago.

Born into a family that already included, besides Karen and me, four other children, all born at home, all, to some or greater extent, schooled at home. And that Dónal, from the start, a child gentler on his parents than those before, whether because of his own nature or that of his parents, already denatured by his older siblings.

In the end, what needs to be said is this and only this: that this child, while fifth in line—and without in any way taking anything away from any of his other siblings—has, mostly, on every and any day, brought joy to his mother and his father.

And for that, Dónal Óg, your mother and I are grateful. So very grateful, even as we wish you joy and love on this, your one and only 18th birthday.

© 2010 Dónal Kevin Gordon