Trailer Wife

But it's only been a year. Today we are celebrating Gus' first birthday, again. Before we left Oregon we had a little shindig for him so that my family could be there for his all-important photo op.

Today it is just the three of us. We had a leisurely morning and went to Pioneer Park (formerly Alaska Land) for lunch. One of the things we've grown accustomed to in Fairbanks is something called "Alaska time." Basically, you take the time it normally takes to get something done and multiply by 5. We ordered a burger and a chicken strips basket at a rustic little shack in the park, and waited a full 40 minutes for our order to appear at the sinister-looking pick up window in the back. 40 minutes! I was trying so hard to be cool about it... "we're not in any hurry," etc. But by the time we'd been waiting for 30 minutes I was swearing loudly. The other patrons just sort of looked at me and shook their heads.

When we finally finished lunch (which, I must admit, was delicious, mostly because the fries were WAY overfried), I took Gus on the old-fashioned carousel. He liked it at first, until the horses picked up speed. And then he crawled up my neck and howled. As much as I wanted him to smile sweetly for the camera (held by Sam on the sidelines), his death-grip on my neck was almost as good a memory. He has grown up so fast this year, but in moments like these, with his face buried in my hair, he feels like a baby again.


One year ago, we were sitting in the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary maternity ward, sharing a dinner of McDonalds burgers and (underfried) fries with our sweet friends Amanda and Gavin. To assuage our fast-food-guilt, Sam and I congratulated ourselves on thinking of such an American meal for the debut of our American Boy. Amanda, heavily pregnant herself, exclaimed at the sight of us with her customary (and much loved) pith: "Holy Shit." I totally knew what she meant.



My labor had been short, and I remember feeling bamboozled, sitting with Our Son in a little plastic box next to my bed. Pregnancy is so disarming... you wait and wait and wait until, at some point, you're not sure this culminating event will ever actually happen. And then it does, and, in the most definitive way imaginable, you are.... NOT READY. I didn't love being pregnant, but gazing into Gus' tiny, disgruntled, wrinkly old man face, I would have happily traded a few months of bloated peace for his sudden, enigmatic presence. We spent hours studying each other warily. I remember one moment in the middle of the night... he stirred in his sleep, waking me up, and turned his head to look at me through his clear plastic box as if to say, "Oh. You're still here, then?" He pursed his lips, sighed through his scrunched up nose, and went back to sleep.

A year later, it still feels surreal. Sometimes, when I'm walking alone, I'll forget for a moment that it happened... Sam, Scotland, natural childbirth (that's right folks, I didn't even take Tylenol). The wife person and mommy person will melt away, and I'll greet this old, original self with something like surprise. We'll reminisce about people we knew, places we'd lived. Moments that only we can recall. Like that day in 1994 when I drove, alone, to the top of Washburn Heights to watch the sun set and listen to Pearl Jam. The way Harvest Peach Yoplait tastes while standing in front of the open fridge on a hot day. Or when, after my first day on the job at Hasty Freeze, I fell asleep in my grease-stained clothes and had a terrifying dream about deep-fat-fryers and bare feet.

I feel wistful, coming out of these little spells. But never regretful. Because something happened this year that I never would have expected. Once I got over the shock of his arrival, I found that I was utterly and irrevocably conquered by my tiny offspring. I am at once enslaved by this love, and also inspired to be the best possible version of ME, in all my incarnations. I named the kid August Wolfgang, for Christ's sake. I've got a responsibility to make sure he can outwit the little schoolyard shits who will inevitably make it an issue.

But then again, if he stays THIS good looking his whole life, he won't need any help from me.