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.
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