Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. At some point in the Fellini-esque dream sequence, as I am showing my slightly pouffy belly to some skeptical persons and insisting that the test was positive, some corner of left brain begins kicking in, and I say "But I don't feel pregnant (and I know what that feels like)".
Yesterday was my son's 24th birthday, the anniversary of my first-born's appearance on the world stage. I started out the day by sending him a text message, knowing he'd still be asleep in our Big Island house, before heading in to work through rush hour traffic. At the end of the day, before tai chi class, I left a voice message on his cell, and got back a text reading "At work mama. Thanks for the bday wishes. Luv ya"
After tai chi, Mark and I stopped for margaritas and a meal, reminiscing briefly about that day 24 years ago, the various people who were there then and where they are now: dear friend Pua who drove us from Kalihi Valley to Kaiser in Waikiki through rush hour traffic with me lying in the backseat already in Transition and feeling every bump on the road; also joining us in the room where Jonah was born were my Bradley childbirth teacher and her photographer husband: wonder where she is now, and do we still have those photos somewhere in our pre-digital collection of shoe boxes?
At the next table, close enough to touch the enormous stroller, sit two young moms, continuously feeding, soothing, bouncing and rocking their naturally manic-depressive infants, surrounded by all the necessary paraphernalia. I never saw the moms eat their meals, nor converse in the adult sense of the word. One of them looked very tired. I thoroughly enjoyed the scene: babies' bobbling heads on still rubbery necks; faces lit with joy each time they re-discovered each other, or mother, or some random hypnotic light in the room; abject misery and tears a moment later, giving way to delight only once mom is out of her seat, rhythmically rocking baby high above those cool-looking restaurant baby seats that work for all of 5 minutes.
Though not as entranced by the show at the next table as I, Mark was easily drawn into free associating about Sargeant Somebody, soon to be deployed to Kuwait for a year, who brought her 1 year old to work recently. Soon Mark's face is imitating the child's wide-eyed stare and chubby cheeks, his hands pantomiming the carefully crafted braids and pig tails surrounding her round chocolate-colored face.
No, we don't miss the babies, and we don't yearn for grand-babies (yet), but they sure can be the best show in town when you have the luxury of just observing these messy little miracles...along with their oh so young, vulnerable and brave caretakers.
Don't worry, girls, I say in my head, before long, they'll be old enough to sit at the table with a little plastic container of Cherrios and a set of crayons and draw on a paper placemat while you get a few bites to eat. Or maybe you'll make the mistake of getting them one of those portable little DVD players, and you won't have to talk to them at all during a restaurant dinner. Then, in the blink of an eye, they'll be teens and won't want to talk to you at all. Time is an illusion and if it exists passes quickly. When you're living in the stressful and ever-present present, these are just words that old folks say. Only those of us on this side of the magic time machine become true believers.
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