Sixteen years later, that assignment remains a sweet memory in my brain filed under 'college stresses that now seem silly'. Sixteen years later, Pat is still on the faculty, perhaps still teaching that same assignment, I am now thirty-four and have a child of my own, and my mother, if she ever reads this Blog, would get a kick out of it and say something like, "Elizabeth, you are ridiculous".
If I had to write that essay today, my approach would be
entirely different, and I don’t mean to imply I would have adopted Angie’s
sensational, over-the-top, graphically-detailed essay. In hindsight, both our essays were missing
the same element. Writing about one’s
own beginning is not so much an exercise in mechanics – we all know how babies
are made (two adults pop open a bottle of
champagne - or several bottles of lemoncello - and one thing leads to another
and lo and behold the stork receives a text message requesting an infant). No, the mechanics of conception, whether
presented in a graphic or subdued manner, are quite basic. Both our stories, and all the stories of the
childless students in that classroom, were missing the why. All the stories of the
childless students in that classroom were missing that seminal moment where one
(or both) of the parents-to-be realize they are willing to take on the biggest
responsibility of their lives. These
stories, written by nineteen and twenty year-olds, as clever as they may have
been, could not possibly capture the emotions behind wanting to bring a new
life into this world. It’s easy to send
a drunk text to the stork. It’s not so
easy to articulate how you know that you are ready to send that text.
Now that I have my own little bundle from the stork, I
imagine what story line my son would concoct, should he ever be asked to
recreate his own conception. Oh, let’s
cut to the chase, why wait for the assignment?
I’m going to be a bad mother here
and just give him (you) the answers.
Dear Baby, it went like this….
Picture it: March 2011, Dad and I have been married a few
months now and are settling into Seventh Borough life just fine. Things are very busy at work for the both of
us, Dad is off to Asia for a fairly long business trip, he’s got projects in
Taiwan, Singapore and Jakarta. I’m up
against a deadline at work myself, for what is basically a series of quarterly
internal audit reviews, and have to prepare reports on the internal control
failures of my own department without losing any friends. So
Daddy’s jet lagged and Mommy’s walking a very fine line. To accommodate this crazy schedule, we set up
a plan, Dad will call home at 5:30 AM, Seventh Borough Time, to check in and
assure me he hasn’t been kidnapped for a corporate ransom. I promise Dad I will take out the garbage and
the recycling and clean out the litter box in his absence, even if waste
removal is my most loathed set of household tasks. Dad lets me know he’s not feeling well but
cannot read the labels of any of the medicines in Taiwan and no one seems to
speak enough English to help him out. I
decide that as payment for taking out the trash, and because I am working very
late these days, I will drive to work and skip the train. Besides, Dad can’t use the car when he’s on
the other side of the globe and is focused on not mistaking cat food for
Pepto.
One morning I wake up and turn on the TV to break the
silence in the house with the AM news.
To my horror, Japan was just hit with an earthquake, which created a
Tsunami that’s ricocheting all over the Pacific Rim. Oh my God, I think to myself, Daddy can’t
swim! Speaking of Daddy, where is my
5:30 AM Phone call?
As I nervously watch the news unfold, thousands upon
thousands of Japanese have already perished, I start talking to the TV in my
loneliness. The news reports that the
effects of the Tsunami are moving mostly towards Hawaii and the Western
Hemisphere. I think to myself, thank
God, Tsunami, you need to go away from Taiwan, or Singapore or wherever my
husband is. And where is my 5:30 phone
call???? In an
early-morning-can-not-believe-my-eyes kind of trance, I talk to the
television: “How could this happen? How is everyone doing? How close is Japan to
Taiwan? I’m sure Hawaii is much better equipped for this kind of thing (based
on nothing), right? Rob can’t swim and
no one is there to talk to him in English!”
Apparently I convinced myself the only thing you needed to overcome a
Tsunami is swimming skills.
I was freaking out
and I couldn’t even call anyone in the Seventh Borough Time Zone, it wasn’t
even six in the morning. Finally, the
phone starts to ring and it’s Dad, he’s having a few drinks at a bar in
Singapore with some of his coworkers, watching the news, in English, just the
same. As casual as could be he asks me, “Did
you hear about this Tsunami thing?”
The day went on. I
drove to work, Dad had left Taiwan for Singapore just a handful of hours ago,
he was safe and had met up with familiar colleagues in Singapore, who were kind
enough to interpret the labels on pet food and Pepto, should he still need to
differentiate. It was a foggy March day
and all seven boroughs were expecting a deluge of rain in the evening. I
worked on my reports until 8 or 9PM. I
was tired and I was running from the fierce downpour to the garage to get the
car and drive home.
It was not the best conditions for driving. I was exhausted, up early, worrying about your
dad, worrying about the crisis in Japan, worrying about the world, really. The rain was incredible, so bad that I had
the windshield wipers on full speed and still could barely see where I was
going. All the lights from the third and
fourth borough city lights bled red, yellow, and green onto the pavement, like
pools of paint, through the swish-swish-swish of my wipers. Rain was coming down quickly, gutters were
filling up and creating small lakes at each intersection. I changed the channel on the radio from
something pop-rockish and up-beat to 1010 Wins just to hear the regular traffic
updates. Surely this downpour would be
shutting down some roads.
I made it across the Tri-Borough Bridge (aka the RFK Bridge,
aka the bridge I had long been afraid of), I made it to the Bronx River
Parkway, unfortunately, though expectedly, located next to the Bronx River, and
prone to flooding. I drove slowly,
almost in anticipation of finding the highway to be closed. The rain pounded the roof of the car and I
had to raise the volume on the radio just to hear the quick-talking traffic
reporters over the gunfire-like sound of rain on a metal roof.
I just about made it into the Sixth Borough, when the water
on the highway seemed to be getting deeper and I decided to get off that road on
my own volition. I was driving around,
pelted by rain, exhausted, and flat out lost.
I tried to follow the service road near the train tracks, I thought I
recognized a street name here and there, but it was all too much and I just
pulled over, shut off my lights, and let the rain take over.
I had a good cry and then I pulled it together and found my
way home. The next few days were more of
the same: 5:30 AM phone calls, lots of audit report writing, a little bit of
taking out the trash, watching the news, thinking, praying, hoping, and figuring
out my own how-to-out-swim-a-tsunami strategy.
I was overcome with a tremendous sense of the fragility of life. I thought to myself, I am not going to be on
this Earth forever, I need to start a family and spend as much time with them
as I can.
Dear Baby, that’s kind of how it went, but feel free to ‘choose your own adventure’ as you will. Dad flew in to Newark. Mom mobilized the lemoncello. And the Stork got a text.
