Ma Vie en Rose: A Literary Birth Announcement

by Erin Quinn

This was the first time that I didn't want to leave the hospital. During my previous visits to the maternity ward, the nurses had no sooner cleaned off the baby when I announced that it was time to take the I.V. out of my arm and hand me a pen to sign the discharge papers. But with two little perogies at home, and a Siberian winter that showed no signs of releasing its frosty grip, the new Marriott-style maternity rooms became almost as appealing as those Club Med commercials during a blizzard.

I had labored silently all night, watching the snow fall on the top deck of the parking garage while my doctor and husband snored simultaneously in their adjoining lounge chairs. The image was so endearing that I found myself tucking them in with my blankets and slipping pillows behind their heads in between contractions. By the time the sun began to rise, my beloved doctor had already left to catch a plane to Chile for a family vacation. My husband was still snoring, the snow was still falling and my contractions had begun to feel like a convoy of semis that were using my body as an alternate trucking route.

The moment came, as it inevitably does, and all I remember is being in so much pain that I told the English-speaking doctor that I was going to push in French and my French-speaking husband that I was going to push in English. Unfortunately, no one but me seemed ready for the moment, as my doctor was running between two patients who had decided to evacuate their little bundles at the same time.

"You have to wait," the nurse said. "The doctor said do not push until he is ready." I felt like a kid in the back of my parents' car telling me I had to hold my pee until we found a rest stop. And like a child with a full bladder in the back of a Chevrolet station wagon, at that moment things were a little bit beyond my control.

Three pushes later, I heard the words: "It's a girl." As a mother of two boys, I had become convinced on some level that we were destined for My Three Sons. The confusion of having this whole new life come out of your body, coupled by the pronouncement of its gender, the utter get-down-on-your-hands-and-knees gratitude that the baby is healthy and the absolute body-racking pain of that last push left me sweetly weeping, wrapping my arms around this tiny little girl, Zofia, whose face was so new and so old depending on the light.

Before I could even snap my hips back into their sockets, the boys arrived with grandma. The phone started ringing, cameras snapping and our 17-month-old, Tadeusz, was raiding my freshly delivered lunch tray. While my husband stood in the hallway with his cellphone, spreading the good news to his friends and voluminous family in France and Poland, our three-and-a-half-year-old Seamus was tearing around the hospital room conducting a performance piece that alternated between avant garde dance moves and sloppy kisses on his new sister's head.

Although I had never, until that point, spent the night away from Tadeusz, and had only been separated from Seamus during the time I gave birth to his brother, I began to see the joys of those old-fashioned ten-day, post-partum hospital stays that my mother spoke of so gloriously. It was almost a vacation from your own life. Sure, there was the sleep-deprivation, the blood, the cracked nipples and a rump so sore that it made you believe you'd be forced to conduct the rest of your life standing up, but there were also round-faced nurses who brought you ice water and pain relievers, took your temperature and asked you if there was anything else they could do for you. Somehow I doubted that I would receive this sort of 24-hour care at home.

I remember sitting in the maternity lounge that first night, my husband and I holding hands, Zofia sleeping in his arms, and thinking that the silence, coupled with the view of the Hudson River, was as close to a romantic getaway as we were going to get for some time to come. In fact, when the moon caught the ice on the river just right, it appeared blue, a Mediterranean blue, and I felt as if we were on a raft, drifting away from the cold and heading towards the sun.

I signed the discharge papers unwillingly, and wrapped Zofia in my down jacket as my husband pulled the car up to the hospital exit. When that sharp February air sliced through me, it was then that I decided that public policy should be changed and women should only be allowed to give birth during the months of April, May or June.

Our house was cold, the boys stir-crazy, but Zofia worked like a little portable radiator constantly warming my chest. Although there were no longer any white-clad nurses asking me if I needed something to drink or offering to take the baby so I could sleep, there was an overwhelming outpouring of generosity from our friends and family. My friend Shari showed up with a full-course meal our first night home, as well as a bouquet of lilies and a bottle of champagne. The second night, our friend Mary showed up at the door with freshly baked bread, stuffed cabbage and our first pinky-pink girly outfit from her mother.

It didn't stop there. Friends offered to take Seamus to give me a chance for a nap, there were phone calls and cards, more meals and more love that seemed to melt the top layer off the snow. And I must say that I'm thankful I do not have an aversion to pink. Even at my baby shower, when I didn't know what was coming out of the oven, bits of satin ribbon and white fluffy adornments came creeping into the mix. I imagined that if the baby turned out to be George, he would be a veteran cross-dresser by the time he turned one.

My friend Amy's mother showed up with an entire bag full of the pink and satin, our dear friends Charles and Gioa sent us a case of Merlot and rose with Zofia's name and birthday printed on the label. No matter how cold our old chicken coop of a house became in those late night hours, I felt as if all of our loved ones had smothered us in a big puffy pink quilt.

What does it mean to have a girl? I have no idea. Having grown up with a sister and a father who could aim, I have only recently discovered that having boys means that your bathroom, normally a sanctuary, becomes transformed into something that smells more like a Paris urinal than an aromatherapy retreat. Although I too probably started out in pink and eventually did grow up to be a woman, I was a defiant tomboy who spent more time in a sweaty Yankee cap and overalls than I ever did in things with lace or frills. I can only aspire to give her the freedom to be herself, no matter what form that takes.

But for right now, I dream mostly of sleep. Sleep and silence, two things that seem constantly out of reach. Our house is like a circus, without the benefit of a ringmaster. I spend most of my time in a chartreuse-green armchair that we bought at the Salvation Army. I am constantly changing milk-soaked shirts and humming the theme of The Nutcracker so that Seamus and Tadeusz can dance and keep out of mischief while I nurse. When all else fails, my husband puts on Polish television for them on the Internet. Last week we heard Grease performed in Polish, this week it was New York, New York. The dishes pile up, the laundry is overflowing, I've learned to nurse Zofia, face-paint Seamus and read in French to Tadeusz all at the same time. Everyday feels like a marathon and like in a marathon you hit a wall at the 18th mile, sometimes I hit the wall during the first mile. I look at parents wherever I go and think, they are not just parents, they are athletes.

While I've always prided myself on being a stoic winter gal, I can't help romanticizing beachside condos in Florida, or little cabanas in the south of France. I have become more intimate with our four walls than I ever wanted to be. Thank god my husband is a decorator and has transformed them into palettes that please the eye. But nonetheless I can't help staring out the window with Zofia in my arms and waiting for spring like some people await the return of their lover.

At weak moments sleep, silence and spring all seem elusive, but I know that they will come, in their own time and on their own terms, just as Zofia came to us. Until then, I think I will return to my green chair, start humming and press that pink bundle against my cheek.

Go Back to Features.