Birth Story

My family’s ties are intrinsically bound by a web of birth stories. For the past three generations (and perhaps further than that, according to legend), the first born baby girls of our family line have made only the most dramatic entrances into their earthly experiences. My great grandmother was born at sea, nearly swept into the ethers of the subterranean waters just a day after her husband was sucked into those very depths. My grandmother was born feet first on the very day my great grandmother found out she was pregnant. Yes, you can find a television documentary series on this very phenomena on your cable network today. To thicken the plot, it’s important to acknowledge that not only was she born unexpectedly and feet first, but she was born at the Woodstock Festival. Perhaps I should have led with that. I like to imagine her sticking the landing and swaying to the groovy tunes with all the flavors of hippie you can imagine around her. My mother was born a month early during a city-wide power outage. My grandfather was deployed overseas, and my grandmother knew the hospital would be a nightmare given that people were flooding the streets, so crafty Grandma Kat did it all by herself in the bathtub.

My birthplace wasn’t so exciting. I was born in a stale, fluorescently lit hospital like millions of others. A basic birth story. If the story ended there, I would be doomed. The family may deem me to be chronically dull or irreversibly cursed. I’d prefer the latter. But there’s more -- my birth smeared over four weeks. Hence, the name Andie after the Andean Queen flower which is known to bloom after 80 to 100 years of a flowerless stalemate. When I finally was born, I came out looking funky. I had a large pink birthmark that sprawled across the left side of my face. I’m fair-skinned as can be, but the deep pink pool steeped in my flesh is hard to miss. Mothers are supposed to coo and awe at their newborn babies. As the tale goes, the shriek of my mother could have landed her in a Hollywood horror film. Since, she’s vehemently assured me she wasn’t terrified of the naked mole rat-cow-human baby fusion that I was -- she thought it was beautiful from the second she saw me. But she was afraid this was a death sentence stamped in clear writing. This would have also fit the bill of the Andean Queen perfectly. After waiting one hundred years to unsheath her bounty of flowers, she dies shortly after. Luckily, birth marks are not a death sentence. And thus, I did not hit my peak as a newborn.

Needless to say, generations of expectations dwell, hot and heavy, in my ovaries. Sure, this story comes in handy as an ice-breaker or during meetings when we’re prompted to share something unique about ourselves. Or for silly games like Two Truths and a Lie. Or to intrigue a potential mate during a first date. I did that once but learned I should keep it in my back pocket a while longer. He got all shifty on me like I wanted to jump his bones and use his sperm to conceive my own fantastical birth story right then and there.

As amazing and quirky as these birth stories are, they have paved a personal hell for me. No one in the family says anything directly to me about it. It’s the off-hand jokes or sly comments that wiggle their way into my ear and snuggle up deep in the psyche. They sprawl out and make themselves at home while disregarding the turmoil it wreaks on the state of my wellbeing. But I remind myself often to not blame my mother or foremothers for their befuddling, beautiful birth stories.

So, the twist. I’m twenty-eight and wildly underwhelmed by the prospects of becoming a mother. I have two younger siblings, but already they’re off the hook without fitting the bill of a first born female. It’s a bummer really. My brother and his husband are in the throes of adoption and my sister is soon to be married and has been struck by the all-encompassing fits of baby fever.

*****

I’m all about a consistent morning routine. I consistently hit snooze two or three too many times, I take a hot shower that runs four or five minutes too long, and I rush out of the apartment, toast in mouth and coffee in hand, about eight minutes behind schedule. On a lucky day, I’ll remember what I’ve nearly forgotten to grab when I’ve only descended a story or two worth of stairs. On a normal day, the memory of the forgotten item of the day isn’t triggered until my feet hit the concrete.

During another forgettable morning, on my second attempted exit, I saw a brown paper box at my foot. My name was scrawled on the box with what looked like a fountain pen. I figured it was Margo and Mason’s wedding invitation. How very vintage of her, I thought. I slipped the package into my bag and continued my cardio for the day, nearly missing the bus. I’d found there to be very little difference between me and my students -- waking up late, nearly missing the bus, and sliding in the school doors just moments before the bell rings. Having spent my lunch deep inside my email inbox with The Walking Dead projected on the whiteboard, it wasn’t until I got back home in the evening that I remembered the box that lay dormant in my bag.

Before opening what I thought would be the most stunning invitation my eyes would ever see, I uncorked a bottle of wine and poured myself a glass. My roommate, Jamie, gave me an imploring eye at which I answered by sliding a glass over to her, too. “Look at you with a fancy package. Why don’t you open it already?”

“It’s my sister’s wedding invitation, I think. It was a crazy day at work, I completely forgot about it until now.”

“Ah, the little sister's wedding. Thrilling stuff. I could be your plus one, ya know, I’m a bit of a pro.” Jamie had two younger sisters, both of whom had tied the knot and started building their own families. So, her indispensable knowledge of older sister stereotypes was always readily available and she was always happy to provide bitesize pieces of advice, like pez candy fresh from the dispenser. As Jamie would wisely expound, there is a grain of truth to the jealous older sister trope in movies. Even if you're not actually jealous or bitter or secretly in love with the groom slash soon-to-be-brother-in-law, the seering questions will inevitably avail. And in order to break free from the depressed-alcoholic-older sister mold, you’ll want to appear extra happy but keep it genuine. And be careful of the liquor. Be classy, stick to a glass of wine but keep it seamlessly bottomless. And in case of an emergency, come prepared with a shooter or two. Or three. Just in case.

“The thing is, I am really happy for her. And I’m happy where I’m at. I just feel like people will be watching me and my every move, you know?” Jamie understood, of course.

We explored the parallels between our lives and cheesy Rom Coms over the remainder of the wine. We clinked glasses over our final sip and I slid the package into my lap to finally unsheath the stunning parcel within. I imagined an invitation embroidered in silky lace, gold plated lettering pressed into the page, Hallmark quality photos of the two delicately placed on the buttermilk paper, which would be of thick and premium quality, of course. The kind of paper you just know is expensive the moment your very fingertip brushes against its glory. Already I felt an urge to rub it on my neck or take a nibble of the corner -- I imagined it to be pleasantly fragrant of sweet orange oil and sandalwood.

What I pulled from the box was far from that which I’d fleshed out in my mind. What I pulled from the box rendered me mute and Jamie ill. “What the fuck is that? Is that...?”

Any form of a reply had escaped me. The words disintegrated on my tongue and caught in my throat, thick as day old stew left idle on a stovetop. It seemed my arms were detached from my body, I saw my hands grasping the sides of a frame and lifting it straight in front of my face, forcing the atrocity into my eye’s reluctant gaze. I stared. Jamie paced. “Why the hell would you be sent that? Nora, what the hell? Please explain.”

“I can’t give you an explanation, I really can’t. I don’t know why or who or…” I mumbled as I tried to grasp onto the elusive, slippery words. For a moment I think she deemed me as a psychotic, blood thirsty, maniac roommate. Upon seeing the ghostly expressions that seized me tight, she softened. In her own way.

“We’re going to need some heavier duty stuff,” Jamie said as she pursued the liquor stash. She slapped a shot glass in front of me and poured it in sloppy. She took a long pull from the bottle. We stared for a moment at the pink. Inside the frame were two pieces of glass. Tightly pressed between the glass was what appeared to be a fetus, like flowers that have been pressed between piles of books for ages to preserve their color, form, and beauty.

*****

I didn’t want kids for a long time, but it wasn’t always that way. I had a husband and we wanted a family, but we found out I was infertile. The jealous, lowly older sister trope I can live with, but the overplayed Hollywoodized tale of infertility insidiously undermines the real life pain and turmoil it wreaks on an individual and a relationship.

The night I received Orpine, O for short, Jamie and I indulged ourselves in a tequila-induced obliteration. The hazier things got, the less terrifying the terror pressed in the glass became. In a slurred flurry of words we plotted what the next steps should be -- who to call, what to do with the thing, and dizzy theories around her origins. I dug deep for a long time -- I’m not exactly sure how long. The pursuit was seductive yet elusive. The mystery of O sucked me into its subversive torrents and loosened my grasp of time. I embarked on some absurd Google searches, called my mother, searched every centimeter of my family tree hoping to unravel some intricate roots of a strange family legend. Jaime grew a little worried, claiming the endeavor was consuming other, more vital pieces of my life. She advised me to get the police involved. “It was probably some perverted creep who sent it, I don’t feel safe about it. You should get people involved,” she said. My mother agreed. “Elenor, please. You’re dwelling at this point and it’s time to move on.” I refused.

O is five now and she’s mine. I’ve got my own place, and I’ve created for her a beautiful shrine. It smells lovingly of sweet orange oil and sandalwood. I’m acutely aware of how freaky this sounds and how crazy I may be deemed. I stopped caring. I can’t explain it, but I think the universe sent her to me. I consider this to be my own crazy birth story, and with O the cycle will end. It was me who was born, again, the night I opened the brown paper box and met O.