Six
His name is James Wilder, and today he is six years old.
James, named for his daddy and both grandfathers. Wilder, partially for the actor Gene Wilder (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is one of our favorite movies), and also maybe a little bit for the playwright Thornton Wilder. But mostly because the first time I said the name out loud, we both knew that was it. James Wilder.
We had tried for him for a while, several long years. We had gone through the many painful and uncomfortable tests only to be told time and time again, ‘there’s nothing wrong with you.’ Everything was working better than okay, we were both healthy, we weren’t too old just yet, and…yet…there he wasn’t. So, we just…got on with it. We resolved that it might just be us, and no, it wasn’t okay, but it was okay. Life got really busy. In fact, in a strange leap of faith, I put my marketing company on hold and took what turned out to be the worst, most stressful job of my life working for one of the craziest people I’ve ever known, flying from Key West to New York constantly, living in an almost constant state of panic and anxiety, my emotions and mind focused entirely on the task at hand. And that’s God’s little sense of humor at play. Because as they say, when you forget to worry about it, that’s when it happens. In fact, without even knowing Wilder was already there, I left that crazy job, restarted my company, and we packed up, put our house up for rent in Florida, and moved to Tennessee, deciding we were going to live in our Airstream by the lake and raise goats for a while. Literally raise goats. That’s the kind of stress and anxiety that job provided me; all I wanted to do was be quiet, and still, and watch goats play. I could ramp the marketing company back into existence, and we could both work remotely. What we didn’t sell or give away, we put into storage, and we started settling back into our hometown and the new quiet way of living we were going to try. We didn’t need any more room than our little 77 Overlander could provide. Why not?
And then, only a few weeks into our new residency, sitting with friends at brunch, mimosa in hand, my phone buzzed with a notification, one of those God-awful pregnancy apps that tracks everything about your body, the kind of app that makes you feel terrible all the time if you’re in the midst of ‘trying.’ An app that I hadn’t looked at in months, hadn’t thought about. And here it was, right there in the middle of me getting on with my life and putting the idea of a little Wilder in the back of my mind: a reminder that something had gone missing. I had been so busy packing, moving, restarting a life, setting up camp, planning for goats. Good Lord. I’ll never forget that moment, how light and full of possibility everything suddenly felt. I said a very hasty goodbye to my brunch company, stopped at the closest drug store, and rushed back to our ‘homestead’ to take a test in the Airstream. Everything about it will always be such a happy, weird, wonderful memory. Jimmy on the other side of the property building a fence for goats, me standing in a camper looking at two pink lines that meant our entire world was going to change. Just like that. I ran to tell him, and we held each other for so long, suddenly so aware of you right there, in between us. Everything was so quiet and still and perfect.
Flash forward through the logistics of ‘oh, yeah, we can’t fit a pack-n-play in an Airstream,’ ‘oh, yeah, I drive a Mini Cooper',’ ‘oh, yeah, we don’t have an actual house to live in right now.’ It was laughable - it was chaotic, and unplanned, and yet everything about it was delightful, somehow. We had this wonderful time of living near my grandparents in the early months while we closed on another house in Florida. We lived next to Nana and Pap for several months, growing Wilder big and strong with Mississippi corn bread and chocolate pies, sitting on porches and talking about baby names. And then we were back in our beautiful little Blue Mountain Beach in house with a view of the ocean, to create a nursery, order tiny little shoes, and wait for the moment he would arrive. It’s no wonder he’s who he is; he was made of beach walks, salt air, and Modica Market’s shrimp salad.
His due date was January 12, and on the afternoon of the eleventh, when I went (waddled) to the kitchen to get a glass of water…my water broke. Standing right there in a long dress in the kitchen, staring at the floor in shock and amazement, just like it happens in the movies. Jimmy put my little packed bag into the car and off we went to Sacred Heart Hospital, driving along 30A, staring out at the Gulf, holding hands and not really understanding but somehow knowing this would be our last moments of just being us. Exciting, terrifying. I’m not sure we said one word on the way, so lost in thought were we.
It was cold and it rained all night that night. Jimmy slept soundly on the delivery room couch, and I stayed awake; watching the rain on the window, listening to the steady beep, beep, beep of machines around me, half-watching old movies like Smokey and the Bandit and shows like Matlock and Murder She Wrote. I couldn’t have slept if I had tried, so anxious for whatever was going to happen next, so fearful, and happy, and excited, and anxious. I knew he was going to be amazing, and at 9:18 the next morning, we found out that he was just that. Amazing. Right on his due date, nine pounds and ten ounces, not crying, looking everywhere, at everyone, right away, and shocking them all when he reached up to grab the nurse’s stethoscope right off her neck. Wilder was here.
At six months, he was talking, and by ten months, he was walking, and now, at six, he asks questions about heaven, and love, and life, and death. He loves telling people he was born in Florida, and so do I. Our little beach baby. He’s so filled with wonder and hope. They say that time passes quickly with your children, that all of a sudden you look up and they’re walking, and talking, and they’re starting school, and driving, and they’re moving away to start their own lives. Lately, I’m hit with an overwhelming feeling of time passing quickly, too fast for me to grab hold of these moments, too fleeting for me to properly appreciate them. How much longer will he be my little boy? It takes my breath away, and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. Lord, let him always love me like he does now; let me always be his safe place; let him know we will always be his home; and Lord, let me be around for as many moments of his life that I can.
Happy Birthday, my sweet, hilarious, adventure-seeking, precious boy. I am forever changed by you.
