Induced by Elmo?

It has been five weeks—almost six—since Ollie arrived three weeks early, water breaking in the middle of the night. It was the same night we took Cass to see When Elmo Grows Up LIVE! at the Fox Theater. He insisted on wearing a pair of too-big Christmas socks and too-short train conductor overalls. Afterwards, we picked up chicken shawarma at the Park Bar, where he stood on a ledge by the counter watching grilled chicken get shoved around on the open grill, completely oblivious to how drastically his life would change in less than 12 hours.

It was as perfect as any night could be, life-sized Sesame Street characters and all—and this coming from someone who once prided her mothering skills on the fact that her son couldn’t pick Elmo from a cartoon lineup until his grandparents bought him a giggling Elmo armchair. I gave up a year or so ago, and these days, especially in comparison to the other annoying, pint-sized TV personalities, I kind of like the little fella.

I knew Cass would love the show, but I never could have guessed how much I would love watching him clap, giggle, squeal and sit, entirely transfixed—and not in the freaky catatonic TV-watching sort of way. Engaged, he pulled his legs up into the well-worn red velvet chair, mesmerized by the blur of color, lights and high-pitched voices, and barely glanced sideways the entire first half. Except the time he looked over at me, and directed “Clap, Mom!” as he applauded with all the unbridled passion of a Tchaikovsky-loving ballet enthusiast seeing Swan Lake for the first time.

Somewhere between Elmo’s I-could-be-a-fireman epiphany and Abby throwing sparkly magic dust across the stage, I looked over at Cass. He seemed so big. And grown-up. And full of joy and self-possession and empathy for these silly, confused characters. Overwhelmed with one of those surprise where-did-my-little-boy-go-? moments, I did everything I could to choke back the tears in the pink halo of the stage, under the grand ceiling of the same theater where Elvis Presley performed in the 50s and now rogue $10 Elmo-faced mylar balloons hung against a sky-high canopy of ornate gilt embellishment.

I was so embarrassed for myself. I didn’t want even Ryan to see my wet cheeks. I knew if I made eye contact, I might actually start sobbing. And it was an Elmo show, after all.

At 12:50 the next day, after approximately six hours of labor, I was crying again—openly this time. I looked down at my newborn son, face and body covered with white, pasty goop under the florescent glow of hospital lighting, and I was giddy to be doing this again. I knew right then, it would be so much easier this time around. The crying, the sleep deprivation, the rattled nerves—all of it—because I’ve already seen 34 months into the future of a moment not that different from this one. I know the happiness he brings.