Cindy La Ferle’s Home Officea window on the writing life

St. Nicholas Day

Cindy on December 5th, 2009

“The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart.” — Henry W. Longfellow

More than 24 years ago, my ob-gyn predicted I’d have a Christmas baby, give or take a few days. The doctor wasn’t too far off the mark, really, since Nate was born on December 6th, the feast day of St. Nicholas.

Known as the Bishop of Myra (now Turkey) in the 4th century, St. Nicholas earned his reputation for secret gift-giving by putting coins in the shoes of those who left them out for him. Word of his generosity echoed throughout the centuries. According to one legend, medieval nuns honored the eve of December 6th by anonymously placing baskets of clothing and food on the doorsteps of the needy. And not surprisingly, St. Nicholas was the role model for Victorian England’s merry Father Christmas. Outdoing the three wise men of the Nativity, the original St. Nick can be credited for establishing Christmas as the season of gifting.

Feast days aside, I remember the day my son was born as though it were yesterday, thanks in part to a three-page “birth report” I’d been assigned to write after returning home from the hospital.

Everyone in my final Lamaze class was instructed to write such a report in less than two weeks after giving birth. (Sleepless nights and postpartum depression were no excuse.) We were told to record every detail we remembered, every emotion we felt, as accurately as possible. Keeping us honest, the instructor insisted that we mail her a copy on deadline. At first, the whole thing seemed like a cruel homework assignment; another task to juggle between midnight feedings. Now, I appreciate it as the gift it was meant to be.

Back then I wasn’t comfortable typing my feelings on paper — especially feelings that were new and raw and deeply personal. Up until then, I’d been writing newspaper stories about art gallery openings and local hamburger joints. Regardless, I took up the challenge. I recorded the hour my water broke (I was watching Bill Bonds on the 11:00 news); the snowy drive to the hospital; the waves of contractions I surfed after my labor was induced. I confessed the irrational fears and worries I’d nursed prior to delivery. I wrote that I was grateful to be fully awake during the birth, and grateful that I was able to witness the miraculous first moment when Doug, Nate, and I became a family:

I recall the medicinal smell, the colors, the faces, and sounds in the delivery room, and even though there had been no time for the nurses to get the mirror up above me for the delivery, I loved being able to turn my head and see Nathan wiggling on the table right next to me, and to have my husband on the other side of me….

While I didn’t realize it at the time, the birth report was my first real attempt at a personal essay. It’s riddled with too many adverbs, and weighted with TOO MANY WORDS IN CAPS for emphasis. Parts of it sound wooden and clinical. Even so, it’s one of the most important pieces of writing I’ve ever done, and today I keep it with a collection of precious letters in my writing office.

Nate hasn’t been home for his birthday in several years. While it took a little time to adjust to his absence during and after his college years, I’m at peace with the fact that our lives are moving ahead just as they should. Nate has his own place in Chicago now, and he travels to other parts of the country for his job. His dad and I are fiercely proud of him for having crafted a remarkably good life for himself.

So we celebrate his birthday a few days early when he returns to Detroit for Thanksgiving. And after he heads back to Chicago, we still honor the ritual of mailing another birthday card and another small gift (maybe something from the cats) that will hopefully arrive in his mailbox on or near December 6th.

St. Nicholas Day is my birthday too. It’s the day I was born into motherhood, the most rewarding work on my resume. Once in a while, when I’m alone at my desk, I’ll open the file where I keep the faded blue envelope scrawled with the words “Birth report.” I unfold the pages and reread favorite parts, still amazed by the gift of a day it describes. – Cindy La Ferle

Tags: Christmas season, essays on family life, holidays and traditions, journaling, Lamaze birth reports, midlife reflection, motherhood, mothers and sons, natural childbirth, parenting, personal essays, St. Nicholas Day, writing motherhood, writing practice
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