averted

The baby turns one in four days.

He’s pulling himself up—sometimes even by using his teeth on the ottoman, couch, his father’s shoulder, his mother’s thigh—to climb.

He often stands at his crib and sings the songs of his people (early birds) until his mother (night owl) peels herself out of bed. He always greets me with a smile that propels me through to the end of my often long and frustrating days.

He leans toward me when I approach someone who is holding him. Almost to the point of falling out of the person’s arms in order to get to me. This is a situation I have only experienced as the holder: A physical obstacle my daughter scrambles over and launches off of to get to her father, when he comes into view. I had always wondered what it would be like to be so unquestionably somebody’s number-one choice. It’s all that I’d hoped for.

He’s figured out how to put shape blocks into their respective-shaped holes. Obviously, this signifies that he will be the one to unlock the mysteries of a non-communicable deadly plague on society.

He brings so much joy to everyone he encounters: his sister, parents, grandparents, family, our coworkers, daycare, neighbors, people at the store. I swear, that smile can light up entire city blocks. And he gives it away to everyone!

He’s constantly examining any sort of mechanical object as though he’s formulating a way to take it apart. I can envision him shrugging at me, holding the innards of an Alexa and smiling, in the not-too-distant future.

We are all sick this week. The last two days it has been very hard to get him to stay asleep—which we had gotten complacent about because he’s a tremendously better sleeper than his sister (I fear she’s inherited my night-chronotype and has a lifetime of morning struggles ahead that I know well).

I had been pacing and singing from 8-10p to get the boy down. Nothing was working. Not the 1970s Bollywood classics, not the laundry list of nursery-rhyme songs, not even the bulletproof Vampire Weekend album with the chandelier. I resorted to singing a couple songs where I list every single person we know. I like to do this with the kids so they don’t forget about our far-away family—I recall my mom doing something similar, and to this day I feel a kinship to my India cousins though I’ve never interacted with them for more than a couple weeks in grand total. I was singing “He’s Got the Whole World in his Hands,” like I have done for both kids about 22,000 times: All of Jon’s family, all of mine, our good friends, kids at daycare, everyone invited to his birthday party on Sunday. I always end with Jon, myself, Ro and him. But for some reason, this night, I choked up and called out his two older sisters in heaven, too. I think of them often, but tonight I ached for them with a pain I’d only ever experienced during labor for both Ro and Kash. I cried harder during my deliveries over those two lost babies than I did for any physical pain—and I separated my pelvis and couldn’t walk for four months after my daughter was born.

I croaked out the rest of the song and let the tears flow. He demanded another round of singing and awkwardly fell asleep askew in my lap in the rocking chair. I put him in the crib and backed out slowly.

I had no business looking into old colleagues on LinkedIn and watching J.Lo’s performance at the VMAs and trying to search my texts for exactly what Queen song it was that made us go into that dive bar in the labrynth of Santorini where we danced our olives off and had the best time in a LONG time. It was pure stupidity for me to be up until 11:51 pm.

Except.

We had causally draped a flannel blanket over the side of the crib for no real purpose. I had put him down and covered him with a heavyish muslin blanket. Normally if he cries after the initial sleep, we let him work it out for himself. But this night he cried and I looked at the monitor—because I was up.

He was struggling. The muslin blanket and the flannel blanket were wrapped around his head and he was twisting them tighter as he tried to get them off. I flew into the room, ripped them off, grabbed him and held him to my heart while I whisper-screamed every single prayer from CCD I could remember. I’m still shaking.

Thank you God. Thank you, big sisters. Thank you, Nani. Thank you, universe. For looking out for us. Because I don’t have it in me to bury another one.

40

It really doesn't seem that long ago that I turned 30. In fact, I wrote about it. There was a whole lot of tumult back then; I had a fat mortgage I couldn't cover as a freelancer, Jon worked as a temp for the State of Illinois doing a job he was ridiculously overqualified for, my savings was circling the drain because we couldn't sell the dee-luxe apartment in the sky...but we were happy.

Now we have two magnificent children who on several occasions have made me turn to my husband and say, "THIS is how people get ponies." We live in a house with an overgrown yard (sorry passive/aggressive neighbors!), and we have decent jobs: I spend too much time either doing, talking or thinking about mine and Jon pretty much solves problems all day at his. We have a circle of family and friends who give generously of their time and love. We have health. We have it all.

But in the middle of the night, or when I'm standing at the gas pump waiting for the tank to fill, or when I'm trying to help sleep catch hold of a small child by pacing and singing? That's when this idea sneaks up and throws a hood over my head: I'm failing. At everything. All the time.

I wonder what people who couldn't wait to see what I would grow up to accomplish would say about my being a midlevel "analyst" working 60 hours and being paid for 40 at a job that does help people but not nearly as many nor as much as I would have hoped. The weight of their imagined disappointment drags on me. I don’t have time for making art, my cooking skills are languishing. I had been trying to read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks for exactly 46 months and finally admitted defeat: I moved it from my nightstand back onto the shelf. My kids' birthday parties are not Pinterest-worthy. My three-year-old often does not go to bed until 11 p.m., no matter how early we start the bedtime routine. I'm an old mom who works a lot, so I'm not interested in burning the precious little time I have with them in battle. The clutter in my house is breeding and we only replaced paper shades with real curtains just before our five-year houseiversary. We still do not have a wedding album, let alone baby books. I often cannot remember why i walked into a room. Or what I had for lunch two hours later. But! I know every word of the Sofia the First soundtrack. Being able to belt out “Bigger is Better” on command has got to be worth some extra credit.

Is this 40? Does this happen to everyone? Ri said, on her 40th birthday, that she "has never felt more healthy or vibrant in her entire life!" But I remember her climbing out her parents' window and smoking clandestine cigarettes on their roof while talking to me on her extra-long-corded phone in high school. Surely, she's not MORE vibrant now—while sleep-deprived from adulting and parenting small children—than at those moments? Is everyone just faking it till they make it? Or am I failing at that, too?

I spent the day trapped in meetings, save for a lovely hour on a rooftop bar with my closest coworker, who smuggled in a Nothing Bundt Cake for me, complete w a candle and the only book of matches in her whole house. We went back for the rest of the meetings, and I cut out early to get a pedicure with my mother and met up w the rest of the family for a nice dinner. Everyone took turns holding the squirrelly baby so I could eat my food when it was WARM. I call that an exceptional day.

This is forty.