Regarding the Virgo Child

When our child was born — three years ago today — with Virgo Sun, Virgo Moon and Virgo rising, my astrology mentor raised her eyebrows, looked at me pointedly and said, “Now you’ll get a deep, deeeeeeep lesson in Virgo!”

She knew, I guess, that such a lesson was due me, my own Virgo Moon highly charged in the powerful embrace of Pluto and Uranus.

The Dragon, born at home on the cusp of sunrise, came out of my body with his eyes closed. No tears, no screaming, no wild “Where am I?” glances around the room. He passed his Apgar tests with flying colors but remained quiet and kept his eyes closed for hours, as if he were focusing hard on a task. His new surroundings, the sudden dryness of air, the finally unmuffled voices: None of these things seemed to distract him or even spark his interest.

We finally realized that he was, indeed, deeply immersed in a struggle to breathe.

How like this triple-Virgo, to focus first, and deeply, on the proper execution of the body before turning his attention to the more dramatic developments unfolding around him. As our midwife and her apprentice swirled around with life-saving equipment and decision-making; as my two dear friends brought food and talked me through what was happening; as my husband, Alan, and I tried to make sense of the sudden turn of events, the Dragon just kept his eyes closed and breathed, and breathed. Focused.

We saw his eyes once, briefly, in the ambulance, and then not again for another three days — once the worst of his infection had passed and he started weaning from the painkillers.

He came back home just shy of two weeks old.

At first, we were so immersed in parenting an infant, and sneaking sleep whenever we could, that we didn’t much notice the astrological psychology of our baby: It just wasn’t, obviously, the priority. I barely even looked at his chart for the first year of his life.

Then, when he was 14 months old, I wrote this entry on our family blog:

When I put [the Dragon] in the bath last night, he noticed a shampoo bottle in a place it doesn’t normally sit. He pointed at it and yelled, “Aaa!” then looked at me and pointed to the shelf where it usually goes.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, “you’re right. It usually goes up there.” I continued to wash his hair and squirt the rubber duckie at him.

He dodged the rubber duckie, looking a little cross. “Aaa!” he said again, pointing to the shampoo bottle and then to the shelf where it usually belongs.

“Yes,” I agreed. “You’re so smart! It usually does go up there.” I started rinsing the soap out of his hair.

“AAA-AA!” he shouted, pointing to the bottle, then to the shelf. He was really kind of perturbed now.

“Okay,” I said, and moved the shampoo bottle to its normal resting place. “That better?”

He picked up a ball and started splashing, happy again. The rest of the evening was a breeze.

He could use a few words by then, but a month or so later they were coming fast. He knew “Mama,” “Daddy,” “ball,” “doggie” and dozens of other nouns by the New Year. Then one day in early spring, he took the broom from me and started pushing it proudly across the kitchen. As he did, he showed off the use of his first verb:

“I helping!” he said excitedly, looking back to make sure we were watching.

Aaaah, Virgo, I thought.

A few months later, as we returned from a big grocery store trip, Alan and I were busy ferrying bags from the car to the kitchen. We got all the bags in during the time it took our son to carry one loaf of bread inside. When the child returned for more, only to find out there were none to be had, he burst into tears and stood facing the corner of the room.

My heart sank. He was very ashamed about something — but what? I crouched down to him and tried to find out, but he was crying too hard to get the words out. I turned him toward me and held him until the sobbing subsided. Then he said simply, “I didn’t help.”

A couple months later, the same message: He screamed when I strapped him into the grocery cart — not, I finally found out, because he wanted to roam free but, as he put it, “Because then I’m not helping.”

And even later: “Can I help make pancakes?” “Can I help fold clothes?” “Can I help plant carrots?”

And proudly, and often: “I helped! I helped!” Gleefully, even.

It sank in slowly, this lesson in Virgo. The Dragon not only values helping but actually identifies as a helper, deeply. It’s what he feels he has to bring to the world. When he’s doing it, he feels so completely in his element that he glows.

And yet, of course, the downside of Virgo is there in spades, too. The Dragon regularly corrects people’s word usage and pronunciation. He is very hard on himself when he does something “wrong,” by his definition or ours. His bedroom must be in such precise order that it often takes more than an hour to settle him into sleep. (But his definition of “precise order” changes on a daily basis, so we can never guess what’s right from day to day!) Certain clothes are verboten (but, again, we never know which ones) because they’re the wrong color, or the wrong picture, or too tickley today. He is a very picky eater. He must have clean hands.

And then there are the trés Virgo quirks. He cannot abide “breaks” between lines in drawing or writing; every corner and connection must be closed. He seems to have a Rain Man kind of photographic mind. He insists that the driver not start the car before everyone is inside with doors closed. He collects small rocks. He loves feeding fish.

I’m convinced that, without knowing the Dragon’s chart, I would miss the connections between these things. They might simply be funny stories to share, traits to wonder at, irritants to quell. But knowing his chart, I believe, helps me tolerate and celebrate even the things I would normally find annoying (except for the sleep challenges. I don’t think I’ll ever like that).

Mothering the Dragon has made me a fuller person, presented me with my own Virgo-ness in a way that helps me cope with it better, grow into it, embrace it. From that very first look at his silent, focused face, until this morning when we laughed together at how the birthday candles melted into his pancakes, we have all grown deeper into ourselves because of this child.

And so. Happy Birthday to all of us.