Thank Heaven… for Emma

By Nat Winthrop

Photos By Sarah Merritt

My only daughter Emma just turned 26. This summer she’ll be married, soon to start her own family. She’s half my age, the age I was when she was born.

I’ll never forget that day. We were living out in the sticks, a half hour south of Montpelier, where we live now. Our first child Eli was born at home, with the help of a midwife. In the interim, Gifford Hospital in Randolph had opened a birthing room, so this time we planned to go there. Early one spring morning, Martha’s water broke, waking us up. As she cleaned up, I grabbed a bite, called August the midwife, got our prepacked bag and a pillow loaded in the car and came back for Martha.

“We’re not going anywhere,” she announced.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The baby’s coming,” she explained calmly.

“Of course it is, but you’ve only been in labor for a half hour,” I said in my typical left-brain fashion, smiling at Martha’s melodramatic antics. “It’s only 15 minutes to Gifford, and August is already on her way. There’s plenty of time; let’s go.”

But Martha was hearing none of it and proceeded to make herself as comfortable as possible on the living room couch. “Look, her head’s crowning,” she exclaimed excitedly.

Incredulous, I confirmed her prognosis. Martha started reminding me of the wet and cold towels and other supplies I needed to gather. I tried my best to assure her I had everything under control, reminding her to breathe.

Five minutes later, 10-pound Emma greeted the world. Thank God for our previous home birth experience and birthing classes! Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, but I knew enough to guide my hands around her head, neck and shoulders, so at Martha’s next push, her whole body shot out, my hands guiding it safely by the cord — not even a tear.

After clearing her breathing passage and dealing with the placenta, Martha and I shared a few minutes of bliss and wonderment. Then I called the hospital with our news, asking them to send August to our house, and filled a basin with warm water to wash Emma, who didn’t cry at all, and let her enjoy a soak. This was the scene that greeted August when she arrived a half-hour later. Soon she took care of business, gave Emma a clean bill of health, and helped settle her and Martha into a cozy bed.

Emma’s calm demeanor her first few days belied what turned out to be a most turbulent infancy. I was in awe of Martha’s seemingly unlimited patience with Emma’s crying spells, which drove me to fits of anguish that still haunt me today. But somehow we survived and watched Emma blossom into a vivacious, sociable, and delightful daughter, who remains the apple of her father’s (and mother’s) eye.

Much of the next 18 years is a blur of activity around our too-often frenetic household, consisting of Martha, me, Emma, her two brothers, and a nearly constant stream of visitors — not to mention my very demanding job in Burlington. I was usually the one to cook the kids’ breakfast and drop them off at daycare, and I always took time to read them bedtime stories. Starting with Richard Scarry, Dr. Seuss, Babar, and the Berenstain Bears, right on through Mark Twain and Howard Frank Mosher. These sessions are mutually cherished memories for them and me. Emma mainly remembers the reassuringly deep and cadenced rhythm of my voice.

Emma was always organizing activities to keep her, her brothers, and friends entertained. She and younger brother Danny, whom she fiercely defended against older brother Eli and other neighborhood threats, grew inseparable. She took dance and then drama club in high school. While both her brothers, in their different ways, experienced their schooling as rollercoaster rides, Emma sailed through, earning ever-appreciative comments and praise from her teachers, graduating high school a year early. She was also more sociable than her siblings, with a steady stream of both girlfriends and, increasingly over the years, (platonic) boyfriends. I remember the excitement of prom night when her tuxedoed date appeared at the back door, and how beautiful she looked in her green graduation gown.

The West Coast soon beckoned; a six-year combined college stint, job, and romance Seattle-style, tested my — and especially Martha’s — heartstrings. But she always said she’d be back, that her heart belonged to Vermont and, sure enough, two years ago she returned, her Olympic Peninsula boyfriend, now fiancé, in tow. A year later they bought a house just a half mile down the road. How lucky can two middle-aged baby boomers get?

I know I’m biased, but don’t take my word for it; ask any of her innumerable fans and admirers, from her grandmothers, aunts, and uncles to her teachers, bosses, co-workers, and friends. They’ll tell you about Emma’s easy-going competence, her fun-loving demeanor, and her rock-solid reliability. She’s the ideal blend of her parents’ best traits. I’m tempted to say she’ll always be daddy’s little girl, but no, she’s definitely her own woman, who has always made her daddy proud.

Nat Winthrop is an independent filmmaker & freelance writer from Montpelier; he is also former publisher of the Vanguard Press and Vermont Times.