Consultant and Author, D. K. Christi

August 11, 2009, 2:36 pm

August 11, 1971, my son gave his first cry for life in this world. His skin was alabaster, his surprisingly thick hair, ash blond. Later, his little eyes started to exhibit a brilliant blue. This child, this gift from my Creator, was the full joy of my existence. His little mouth at my breast to nourish his body was an experience akin to no other. The bond between us was one of perfection. His every cry, every smile, every little spurt in growth, was religiously recorded in the baby book. He was poddy trained on schedule, walked and was weaned from the breast at 13 months, and was vigorously healthy. He laughed more than he cried and took a long nap.

We were lucky. Great grampa, in his healthy late 80's, was a willing sitter during those long naps. I started taking a college class nearby, schooling interrupted by motherhood; and great grampa pulled a chair next to the crib where he would still be sitting upon my return, except once. Great grampa came from a generation where mothers cared for children and dads worked. He had never fed, diapered or bathed a new baby. He could, however, sit by the crib. One day I walked in the door and saw my son standing in the crib and great grampa standing also. My son had on a diaper and was standing in a mess of bedding that would have won America's Funniest Video if it wasn't for great grampa's serious and concerned explanation.

"He woke up and his didy was dirty. I couldn't leave it that way. I stripped him naked and held him in one arm while I scooped up the covers and diaper that you'll find in the garage. I ran the spray hose in the kitchen sink on his bottom until it was clean with him just a screaming away because I know the water was too cold as I was so afraid of getting it too hot. I put him back on the plastic mattress crying while I found some bed sheets in your closet and a diaper. I couldn't find any more pins so I got the masking tape from the garage. Once I got that diaper in one place, I sort of piled the sheet, but he refuses to lay down so I'm just standing here talking to him, and he quit crying."

The diaper had dropped into sort of a skirt with the masking tape holding around the waste. My son was thoroughly enjoying his chat with great grampa, jumping up and down in the sheet mess under his feet. I hugged them both and released great grampa to head home for his evening paper, probably grateful to get away. He had thoroughly cleaned my son, but the diaper was a useless disaster; and I changed the sheets to the ones for the crib. I couldn't help but smile the whole time, and my cheerful natured son was having his own giggles. I wondered if he knew that something was out of kilter about that whole diapering and bedding operation.

Birthdays are celebrations of life. I've actually spent very few of my son's birthdays celebrating with him, but I could tell about each one in detail from the pizza parties to the Japanese steak house with a pineapple holding a candle instead of a cake. Birthdays included hotels in foreign lands and ships and sailing yachts and homes abroad with friends from every country and culture. We all celebrated birthdays; we all celebrated life. I have an independent son who now travels on his own so often I seldom see him. I do have wonderful memories, especially today. Perhaps he'll call. I don't have a number to reach him.