Happy seasons of birth

Two of Edith's friends marked big birthdays today. Her classmate and neighbor, Harrison, had his 1st. We celebrated with him last Sunday. Edith joined Harrison for a spin around the 'hood in a Radio Flyer, with the older toddlers dancing attendance. Despite not having much experience with birthdays, Harrison knew just how to play the role of king-for-a-day, settling into his ride with ease.

And a friend-to-be, formerly known as Squirt, had his 0th birthday today (or as we might once have noted in linguistics class, his birthday birthday). Welcome, to the world, wee one! We can't wait to meet you.

The return of spring to the Northeast has been awakening memories for me of the exquisite time last year when we were awaiting our own big arrival. We were living in a wonderful old 19th-century house on the Princeton campus, light and airy and spacious, overlooking a rolling golf course with big trees and a Gothic tower at the crest of the hill. After the sun had gone down, as the moon appeared in the purple sky behind the tower, we'd slip through the fence and take Bismarck romping across the course. And we'd wonder when our baby was coming, whether it would be born under that crescent moon or wait until the moon was full again, or new. There were forsythia, apple trees, tulips, and daffodils blooming along the paths on the golf course. By the start of May the lilac bush in the yard just outside our door was in full bloom and redolent. My memory of Edith's birth is very much tied up with that house.

But I couldn't remember exactly what I was doing this time last year while waiting, so I went back and re-read my journal from last April. On the day before my due date, I went to exchange some of the baby clothes we'd been given (at one point we had 89 onesies but no dresses). In the afternoon I met with a professor in the religion department about my dissertation for the first time, to gauge her opinion on the topic and see if I could interest her in being on my committee. A classmate and I next met with the chair of the history department about some sticky politics with a guest speaker we'd invited to campus. Then I attended a commemoration of the Armenian genocide, featuring Peter Balakian, who deftly navigated sticky politics of his own with Turkish students in attendance. After chatting with some classmates I hadn't seen in awhile, I went home, cooked and ate dinner while Tom was at work, walked Bismarck, and pre-washed the last batch of baby clothes.

I marveled at the entry. I remembered having had energy right up until the end of my pregnancy, but I hadn't realized I'd had quite that much energy. Pretty impressive for a woman days from giving birth.

But when I showed Tom the entry, he shook his head and laughed, "When's the last time you did that much in a day?" And then I laughed, too. He was right: I wasn't amazed at the capabilities of my pregnant self, from the perspective of a non-pregnant person. I was amazed at the capabilities of my childless self, from the perspective of a toddler parent.

Those journal entries from late April and then May and June, Edith's first few months, recaptured for me just how free we were last spring and summer. I know on an intellectual level that we have many more responsibilities now and a much more regimented lifestyle. But it took reading my entries to realize just how open-ended all our days were, how independent and mobile and in charge we were--even within the relative confines of a student lifestyle in suburban New Jersey.

Before Edith came we touched base with each other about our day's plans, but we didn't carefully coordinate our calendars. The schedule changed from day to day, and the day could last until midnight and beyond. We might head up to New York, or further, to see friends. After Edith came we were even freer, because Tom left his B&N job and could really call his time his own. We worked the new baby into the fabric of life without feeling like we'd changed too much. We visited with guests, went out to dinner, attended softball games and cocktail parties. We took road trips.

A year later, it is all different. The airy house is no longer ours. We live in a wonderfully friendly neighborhood and an apartment that can only be called spacious by any graduate-student standard but is nevertheless darker and squatter than our old place. It presses down on your spine in a way that the pink house let you stretch to the twelve-foot ceilings.

And the routine presses down, too. There is a happy rhythm to the days: Wake up to a beaming, babbling child. Get her to school, then head to school ourselves. A long day of focused research and writing alone in my basement carrel at the library. Then home to pick her up, make dinner, put her to bed, and have a few adult hours to unwind. Repeat. That's the essence of my journal entries for most any weekday in 2006. On the days when she's not a daycare, we may manage a single errand, wrestling baby and bags and gear into and out of the car and into and out of the store, before we coming home for the morning nap.

It is a joy to watch Edith grown and learn. But she definitely does so within a set framework. There are no more late nights. No more unpredictable days in which I am unaware of where Tom is at the moment. No question that dinner will be at home, around 6pm. No lectures or campus events that last past the 4:45pm shuttle. No sudden decisions to go browse in a bookstore for awhile. No spontaneous invitations accepted. Not even any lightning trips to do errands, in and out of the grocery store, the bank, the library, and the post office in under an hour. Yet even the basic routine, pared down so far from what it once was, is exhausting. I feel like I've fought a minor battle by the time we get out the door in the morning.

Maybe winter did it to us. Or moving. Or turning 30. Or getting into the heart of the dissertation. Or losing our discretionary income. But most likely it crept up on us as Edith came to rely on regular naps and bedtimes, and as she threatened to be a nuisance in any public place where we spent more than fifteen minutes. It's a happy life. But it's different. We'll never have anything like last spring back again.