I don’t have kids myself, but I know a little about how I arrived. I
was born in the same hospital as my dad—a small symmetry that feels
meaningful to me, even if I can’t quite say why.
I’m the youngest of four. Between my next-oldest sibling and me, my
mom had two miscarriages. I never talked about it with my parents; I
just sort of absorbed that part of our family story as a teenager,
like it was just part of the background. Only as an adult did I start
to realize how much she must have gone through—physically,
emotionally—just to get me here.
Mom grew up on a farm in the rural midwest, no indoor plumbing, cold
water, a father who kicked her out for wanting to go to college. She
put herself through school, met my dad, and moved to Southern
California. By the time I came along, she was working, raising four
kids, and relying mostly on other mothers for support.
After she died, I learned she’d struggled with postpartum depression
after I was born. My oldest sister recently shared a memory of an
ambulance coming to take her to the hospital when I was an infant. I
understand I was a hard baby—very colicky. I can still vividly
remember the smell of soy-based formula from a can. It’s hard to
imagine what that time was like for Mom, especially at a time when
people didn’t talk about these things. But she kept showing up and
doing it all for all four kids—soccer practices, ballet and theatre
for my other sibs, all on top of her full-time job. That’s the story I
have, and I know she fought hard to bring me into the world.