I count backwards from ten at least eleven times a day. Having a four-year old, an eleven-year old, and a small apartment means I can go from ten to two faster than a pregnant woman can go from blessed to pissed. I count backwards to count my way to calm, though it’s often the calm before the storm. When at one I stand before my two trembling noisemakers, I’m often reminded of the first time I counted backwards for them.
With my first, I paced the creaking wood floors of my small, overheated apartment and I panted “ten puff-puff, nine puff-puff, eight puff-puff, seven puff-puff …” I had already endured the rejection at the hospital the previous day so I was determined to count until I could count no more. Counting backwards was my only way of taking the contractions—growing in intensity with every puff-puff—down a peg, or at least a number. When I finally had the numbers and credibility to get into the labor-ward, the midwife counted that last push down from three to one, and another countdown was marked with much chest beating and back slapping (my husband), and even some yelling at the sky (my son).
My second was a different labor, and I didn’t find myself relying on my backwards-counting methods until a week after he was born and I was counting down through tears, as he latched on for his hourly feed. With every number counted away, I reminded myself that he was gaining weight and I was (surely?) losing it. That his resolve against sleep was getting softer and my mammaries were getting tougher.
I have a regular counting backwards gig every Wednesday evening. I count from five to one to signal the start of a race from the street corner to the steps of our house. At five, the kids are digging elbows to get the best start. At four, jackets are being pulled and shoved, war cries issued. At three, youngest takes off like a spring hare, with eldest on his tail like a not-to-be-denied greyhound. At two, husband blocks hound so that crying hare can make a good break for the gate. At one, I bypass husband and squealing hound and close in on happy-again hare. At the gate, I am taken down by elder males, as young hare steals the win … again.
