That's Life: A Special Place in the HeartBy Phyllis McGuire
iBerkshires Columnist
09:52PM / Tuesday, June 09, 2009
At this time of year, high school and college commencement ceremonies are held and graduates are showered with gifts.
Some of the gifts I have received on special occasions over the years, wore out, went missing, broke or were consumed, but some are still intact and in my possession.
A gift I keep in a dresser drawer was presented to me at a luncheon in my honor when I was pregnant with my first child. In later years, that gift, a book titled "Just Me," which contains 50 pages for recording a baby's progress in its first five years, would virtually wound a tender heart.
When the book was new, I penned on the page headed "You Were Born," the date my son, Christopher, made his much-anticipated entrance on this stage we call life, and other details regarding his birth.
As time went by, I noted in appropriate spaces, Christopher's age the first time he slept through the night, held his bottle, took a step on his own, said "Momma" and how old he was when his first tooth appeared.
I remember well that I was the one who discovered Christopher's first tooth had emerged from his gums. At the time, he was 7 months old and a patient with an undiagnosed sickness at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. For what seemed an endless six weeks, Christopher underwent a battery of tests. But I digress; that is a story for another time.
Christopher was a healthy, happy 2 1/-year-old when I gave birth to my second child.
 I was beyond elated when the obstetrician announced, "It's a girl." I so wanted a daughter to make our family complete. A daughter I would love more than I once thought possible.
No one thought to give me a baby book for Jennifer and I never got around to buying one. I was too busy changing diapers, sterilizing bottles, and the million other things a mother must do for a newborn as well as attending to Christopher's needs to think of anything not relevant to my children's welfare.
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As the children grew, I was aware that the bond between them became stronger with each passing day. Nonetheless, as a teenager, Jennifer imagined I favored her brother over her, and one day she cited "Just Me" as an example of how much more I loved him than her.
Now as an adult, Jennifer jests about supposedly being jealous of her brother. "Go ahead and talk to your favorite child," is typical of what she says, with a smile, when Christopher calls while she is visiting me in Williamstown. But, I sometimes wonder if she really is joking.
Recently, Jennifer told me she intends to go back to college to earn a master's degree. And she asked if I had a record of the inoculations she had received as a child, which she would need to submit to the college. "I used to put that kind of stuff in the baby book," I said, meaning "Just Me."
As Jennifer waited for my reply, I fingered through dozens of forms and notes from the pediatrician Jennifer and Christopher visited regularly during their childhood.
I was spared sharing with Jennifer that I had not found the records she needed; when I returned to the phone, she said, "Mom, I have to run. I'll talk to you tonight."
Later as I made a thorough search, a question haunted me: If I had failed to retain the records, would Jennifer feel justified in saying, "Sure, you saved everything to do with Christopher, but what about me?"
 Fortunately, this time I did find the information Jennifer needed. Yes, it was right there in the baby book.
Yesterday, I mailed to Jennifer the forms containing the information she needed. I also slipped into the envelope a copy of a pink card I had brought home when we had been discharged from the hospital. The card bears the date and time of her birth, her weight, and is signed by the obstetrician who was the first person to hold her. I did not want to part with the original as it holds sentimental value for me.
I should stop supposing Jennifer has any doubt about how much I love her. After all, now that she has a son and a daughter, she knows from experience that there is a special place in a mother's heart that overflows with love for each of her children. |
