Auntie Ellen just pointed me to this verse, by Philip Larkin.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
–Philip Larkin
July 17, 2007. Rowan is five years old. Pictures of the birthday festivities, which stretched from July 4 (when Nana and Grandpa Al came down) to July 17, (when Bamma and Bampa visited), finally ending (we think) on July 19, when yet another of Auntie Ellen’s fantastic cards arrived in the mail, can be seen here.
I can’t come up with anything to say that doesn’t sound trite, or overdone, or already done. It’s been an honor, a privilege, a roller coaster. I have had the inside of my head thoroughly reupholstered. I am nothing like the person I was six years ago. All because of him.
I have never had another human being impact the entire course of my life the way Rowan has. I think about the girl I was before I got pregnant with him, and I laugh outright, when I’m not busy cringing. My view was so much more narrow, and my opinions so much more lightly held. I tolerated more guff in my world, and I allowed more prevarication. In the interest of just getting along, I let more chaff pass through my life.
And then Rowan happened. As I say in the real version of his birth story, he “ripped my world view apart and reassembled with staples and vicodin.” Sounds harsh and painful and transformative, which it was, but by now, I can be incredibly grateful that I was given the gift of sight, of really seeing this whole world around me accurately. Too many people sleep through; Rowan woke me up.
So happy birthday, Rowan. And many many more. I can already see glimmers of the person I think you’ll become, and I can’t wait to see what amazing steps you’ll take on that path between now and then. I love you, little man.
Yesterday, Marc took the boys to the park for three solid hours of hardcore, all-out, total gonzo playtime, so I could knock down some of my insane to-do list. And when they got home, Rowan sidled shyly up to me, and waited for me to shift my attention from the screen to him.
One at a time, he pulled from his pocket an unruly mix of small flowers. Clovers, which are hardy and endured the compression well, and buttercups, which didn’t, so much. He deposited them one after another into my hand and said “I picked flowers for you, Mama, because I love you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and headed outside to jump on the trampoline. So he didn’t see me get all teary-eyed. It didn’t matter that I reacted; it mattered that he’d done what he’d intended to do.
Unconditional love, five-year-old style.
This post, “Day of a Thousand Charms“, was originally posted here, and Robin, the excellent editor of LWOS, asked for reprints. So here it is!