October 9, 2000

I took the kids to the town historical society today--of all yawners of an idea for kids. But they were up for it, and it ended up being really interesting. There are a bunch of these places around here; the towns are all Revolutionary War-era, and there are cool things to see--if you're into butter churners and barn looms and stuff like that. The cradles that rested beside the beds were nearly 4 feet long; kids slept in them until they were 5 or 6. There was a place along the side of the beds where you could tighten the ropes that were strung beneath the straw mattresses. (Hence "sleep tight.") There were spinning wheels that were predominantly used by men, except in cases where families had older, unwed daughters, who would spin in lieu of husbands. (Hence "spinsters.") Children and slaves often stood while they ate, because chairs were in short supply and reserved for the master of the house. (Hence "chairman.") The toys were exquisite: painted blocks and puzzles and doll houses with the most incredible details.

We looked up our house in their books; it's one of the original 42 houses built by the founding 42 families--religious folk who moved up river a few miles to better enjoy their straight laces. (You still can't buy booze here, and there are about 20 churches serving a population of 16,000. But people mind their own business, so it's OK.) The house was passed down through the generations in that same family until 1962, and only two families have lived in it since then. "1962!" I said to the kids. "The year before I was born." I.e.: recently, in a context. Not a spark of anything from either of them, though, and I remembered suddenly that the only president they've ever known is the one we've got now, and that they've both asked me, "What was life like back in the 1980s?"

If I think on it too long, my inevitable death depresses me terribly. Not the dying, but the fear that it'll happen before the kids are ready. And who's ever ready to lose their mom?

One good reason not to visit the historical society.

***

My baby sister is in labor tonight, and by morning my newest niece will be born. The kids climbed out of bed half an hour ago and came downstairs to talk on the phone with my folks, who flew down to Atlanta to be there for the big event. And after we hung up and I was tucking the kids back into bed, I told them again what happens when a baby is born, and Maisie inevitably personalized it, asking about her own birth, and Liam inevitably got quiet, reminding me again that these occasions of rootedness and connection for Maisie are simultaneous reminders to Liam that he does not have those ties to me.

He asks carefully; he monitors his own emotions, and shuts down before he might cry. "Did Aparna have any pain medicine when I was born?" he asked. "Did she cry?"

"She didn't have any pain medicine," I said. "Most women don't. And I would have done it the same way, because if somebody's lucky enough to give birth to a boy like you, she wants to feel every moment of it."

He didn't smile. He didn't say that he wished I had given birth to him. (I've read that some adopted kids do express that wish.) He's so connected to her. "I think she cried when she said goodbye to me," he said, and the thumb was in the mouth by then. I nodded. "I think so, too."

What I wouldn't give to put the two of them back together--to understand what tore it all apart in the first place, and spin back time, and let him be there: one unbroken life story. The people who lived in our house 45 years ago were connected by blood to the people who slept in the same rooms for the 200 years preceding them. But Liam has only 6 years to draw on--sapling roots in dusty earth.

That's asking a lot of a person. Too much for a little boy and his thumb.

***
Six years ago today, a woman I barely knew knocked on my hotel room door in Kolkata and handed me this little boy. "It's your mama," she said to him, and I knew it was for my benefit; the baby had heard only Bengali for the first eight months of his life. He had the most serious eyes: deep and attentive and wise. He frowned; this was not a joyous occasion: he didn't know it--or maybe he did--but four days later he'd leave everything he'd ever known behind, including his own identity.

My darling boy, I could never give you as much as you give me. But I've loved you forever and I always will.