Happy Birthday, Niles

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat (Weekend Edition) on April 8th, 2011

I was going to continue my rant against school fundraisers, but last week I ran out of time and ended up recycling an old column, and this week, it happens that my middle son Niles is turning thirteen. He missed being an April Fool’s Baby with only minutes to spare. (Wait, if he had been born on April 1st, would that have made me the fool, since he was the baby? Thanks. Like I needed biological confirmation.) I had labored all day before that child was born, and even with the aid of Pitocin to speed the contractions along, it seemed to take forever. By the time you get to your fourth child, according to folklore, that child is supposed to practically deliver himself.


“Ooh! Hurry to the hospital…” or hurry and get your midwife to your home, because that child is going to be as easy to deliver as opening a pop-top can of soup or pineapple chunks. Gone is the need for a can opener – electric or otherwise.


Incidentally, does the term “midwife” sound antiquated to you? Nurse midwives are medical professionals who are highly trained and skilled. Yet, the term midwife conjures a Medieval image of calling in the woman up the street who has numerous surviving children. Furthermore, nurse midwives have all the training of nurses and then some. My nurse midwife in Ohio actually held a Ph.D. as well. Sadly, in the clinical setting she was not referred to as “Dr.” because of the possible confusion between academician and physician.


I know there are a number of male nurses. I’m not going to give you any statistics, because that would require work from me to dig up this information, and you, being a newsprint-reading sort of person, are probably the inquisitive and intellectual sort who is all too eager to look this up for yourself. I would not want to rob you of that simple joy.


All I can say is that during my husband’s twelve days of hospitalization last fall, I recall at least three male nurses who took great care of him. Now the question is, can a man be a midwife? I am sure there is some practical, gender-neutral term for the man who decides to undertake this profession. Is it a midspouse?


Anyway, what was the hold up in the delivery of my boy? I wouldn’t have been able to tell you then, but now that I’ve had thirteen years to get to know him, I know the exact cause of his in utero delay.


I suspect that this child was giving a lecture of some sort even back in the womb, and he just could not be interrupted from his oral delivery to participate in the delivery of the other kind. This child is just about the most talkative person I know. Right after, or possibly along with, my second daughter. Make that after my husband. And maybe after a couple of the other kids. OK – there’s really only one of the six children who hasn’t a lot to say, but of the other five talkers, I would say that Niles is the most talkative.


I realized this early in his youth, and knew that it would have a lifelong impact even when he was just a tot. When he was newly potty trained, he would wander into the bathroom, door ajar, and plant himself on the potty insert. All the while he was getting himself settled, he had hardly interrupted his flow of speech. We’re not going to talk about any other flows here, because that could embarrass my child, and we know that I am always so judicious about what I send to my editor’s desk. (Except that time I talked about boogers.)


There’s nothing wrong with being loquacious. In fact, it is always a good complement to a laconic individual. My only problem is that it really interferes with my own plans to impart knowledge, wisdom, and other vital instructions such as: "Unload the dishwasher! Dump out the trash!"


Once, when he was in second grade, just moments before heading off to bed, he leaned against the railing, cocked his head, and began a sort of monologue before he got the burning question that lay on his mind, “Mom, supposing that you happened to have something in your ear, like paper, or something…how difficult would it be to get it out?”


Yes, he has always used the longest words possible. When he was less than two, and wanted to talk about rubber bands, he called them rubber Band-aids. When he was looking at a plant, he even had to string that out to a “planet.” The worst was when he was telling a dinner guest that he had watched me preparing the chicken curry I served that night. He told them that he had seen me cutting the “raw-ten” chicken.


At the end of his ramble, it turned out that he had lodged a small wad of paper into his ear while trying to demonstrate a magic trick during recess. The resolution, after lots of home remedies, involved a trip to our wonderful pediatrician, Dr. Margaret Jeffries-Honeycutt.  Happy Birthday, Niles!