Forty

Around 10:30 tomorrow night, Harrison will turn 40 weeks old. This birthday is probably of significance only to those of you who have ever been pregnant, for a baby’s due date is determined by measuring out 40 weeks from the date of conception. Harrison’s due date was May 4, 2004*, though he stubbornly refused to vacate the premises even though his lease was up. As too many of you witnessed first hand, it took a vacuum extractor suctioned firmly to his slippery head to finally evict him from his cozy abode after 41 weeks and 1 day of residence.

The point of the matter is that in just a few days, Harrison will have existed longer externally than he did internally, and that makes me profoundly sad. He has hit all of the milestones—grasping, rolling, sitting, crawling, and now pulling up—as if he had them scheduled in a PDA, but despite the feelings of wonder and pride that these accomplishments have engendered, it’s hard not to also realize that his babyhood is slipping away and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. When Doug pointed out Saturday that Harrison’s first tooth was finally erupting, I lost my shit.

While I was pregnant, some author I was reading theorized that the aim of all that we humans do in life is to get to a place where we feel as secure and happy as we did in utero. Perhaps mothers are likewise always yearning for that same, pure emotional connection--that perfect ability to protect their children--which they had while pregnant.

I don’t mean to romanticize either my 41 weeks of pregnancy or Harrison’s first 40 weeks in the big, wide world, but for mothers, and for mothers alone, the 40-week mark is a different kind of milestone, a bittersweet one, and that deserves a mention.

Happy forty-week birthday, my baby boy.

*which, conincidentally, is baby Yanoski's due date in '05