I was twenty-four when I had my first child. The doctor and my Lamaze instructor warned me that it would take several hours for a first birth. It took all of six for my son to see light. At our Lamaze reunion, I was the hateful showoff, the one who didn’t abide by the rules.
I was twenty-nine when I had my second child. My office mates planned a baby shower for me on April twenty-second, but I had to call and cancel. My baby due on June 6th came early. It took me three hours to deliver a healthy but premature 5lb 3oz little girl. Once again I broke the rules.
I worried for nine months when I was pregnant with my third child. According to my body’s track record, I kept cutting delivery times by halvsies. I should have taken bets on that because number three got here in less than the anticipated one hour and a half. I am not exaggerating; from first pain to birth, he was here in forty-five minutes. I was still fully clothed, except for underpants, delivering my baby with my Candies wedgies wedged in the stirrups.
I retired the baby works after that. I was thirty one. Raising three children well was going to be enough of a challenge.
I taught my three to grow up to be independent, with a strong sense of right and wrong. I instilled in them a love for one another in case they didn’t have me to look out for them. I prayed for their happiness – in their personal lives, in the careers they chose, in the decisions they made. They always came first and I loved them (through example, words, affection). I did all this because one day I would have to let them go out into the world without me.
I am their mother but I do not own them. God entrusted them to me and together, He and I, we did a pretty good job.