Happy Birthday, Primo

Why is this night different than all other nights?

Oh, wait—wrong holiday.

February 13. The Day Before Valentine’s Day. Gayle’s Birthday.

If I could have held on one more day, her middle name would have been “Valentine.” So cliché but I don’t care...and still, I’m a little sorry it didn’t work out that way.

February 13, 1977. In the very early morning hours, I was kept awake by what I thought was gas. And, as those who really know me are aware, farting on purpose is not my forte so I never found relief. I was uncomfortable and moved from bed to the couch. At some point after the sun started coming up, I noticed that my “gas” pains were time-able and started charting my progress. Yep, my gas was really labor. By evening, there SHE was—fueled by pitocin and shooting out with all the force of an Ohio windstorm—my first-born, Gayle Eileen, 8 lbs. 11 oz.

As they sewed up my “exit wounds,” she was swaddled and presented to me with a bunch of multicolored wires sprouting out the top of her head: the tiny screw that connected the wires of the internal monitor (never again!) to her perfect head had gotten tangled in her long hair so the nurses just cut the wires to disconnect her and fished them out later. (Although – NB: the multicolored wires would have been the harbinger of hair colors to come, had I only been looking for the signs.) But, wow, was she ever a “keeper.” Not so tiny as to be fragile, so nothing to be afraid of; long hair and a gorgeous baby-face; 10 fingers, 10 toes, and delicate ears like her dad (for which I was thankful as I have “Grandpa Johnson” ears). My checklist was complete—she was beautiful and everything I had hoped for, maybe even more than that.

In retrospect, I felt a tad lonely giving birth to Gayle with just her dad (his face covered in a mask; hospital rules!), the nurses and the doctor in the room. Cold, sterile, shades of whites and sickly pale greens. It should have been enough. But I wanted everyone to see this feat of strength—the culmination of nine months of germination! Our brand new pink healthy baby with the dark hair and blue eyes! I knew that Mom and Dad Q were held in abeyance in the hospital waiting room – so close and yet nowhere near. I wanted them to know immediately that their oldest daughter, known as a sissy, the one who’s every childhood story ended with “...and then I cried...” had just delivered a major honkin’ newborn without keeling over. And so it began that I decided “nevermore.” Should we have more children, I would invite more of my loved ones when the time came.

(pic: 5 generations of 1st-born girls--Great-Great Grandma Ashbrook, Great-Grandma Ripley, Grandma Quattrocchi, Mom/Dolli, and Baby Gayle, 1977)

I never assumed that my girls would want to emulate what I did back in the late 70s and early 80s: über-natural childbirth, attended by a few family members who would “share in the experience.” My sister-in-law Marilyn was my mentor and my doula. I wanted labor and delivery to feel like a party of support personnel, minus the distracting balloons and streamers. But really, how unfair to think that only one person can provide all the support a heaving gigantus of a laboring woman needs—it’s called labor for a reason, right? Well, give a girl a hand! Plus, if my family were in the room with me, I wouldn’t have to worry about them worrying about me (as it happened during Gayle’s birth). I know, it’s not for everyone – but it certainly was the way I wanted it. And so it was for Meghan and Liz's births with Gayle as a small and well-prepared witness.

Now, my first baby—the perfect infant, toddler, and child – and even as a teenager, with all the darkness, secrets and angst that generally comes with that age – is all grown up and, herself, a Mother of Daughters. The torch passes...

Can you imagine my joy when Gayle invited me to be there for Elliott’s birth?

“Me?? When? There? Really??
Did you check it out with Kris?
Well, if you both want me there...sure...whatever you need...sure...”

[okay, okay – in my head, I only heard my own screams: THEY.WANT.ME.THERE! EEEIIIIIII WOO WOO WOO!]

It’s what every Earth Mother wants to hear. And it replayed for Frankie’s birth – only I didn’t have to travel to L.A. to be there. (My theory: “...once for the experience and the second time to get it right.” Gayle and Kris, you know what I mean.)

And I hope that Gayle hears it from her daughters when the time comes.

“Momma?...”



She’ll be the perfect next-generation Earth-Mother-Doula — she knows the ropes. It’s a skill that may be passed on from one generation to another – and not-so-coincidentally, it happens on a birthday. So Gayle, for us it didn’t start on your birthday, but it was set into motion because of you!

Happy Birthday, dear daughter.
I’m so glad you’re here.

xo mutti