When I think back to the day our baby, the youngest of three, was born, I do so with mixed emotions. Our baby turns 18 today! Mixed emotions because this pregnancy was the worse one of the three…should I go into details? If you insist.
Why is it that women love to revel in the sordid, gory, details of a pregnancy and birth? Heads up! Here comes another tale, my friend.
I was plagued with issues I didn’t have the first two times around the pregnancy-go-round. Think stretched beyond belly limits before the third trimester.
Think holding my stomach up with both hands for added support as I walked around.
Think weight of the baby producing hemorrhoids (too much info?). They bled.
Think three days past due date which were the longest three days of my life.
I must admit, however, this was not the worse birth. That is accredited to the oldest child.
I remember that I fondly referred to the attending nurse of the birth of this third-born child, as Attila the Hun. Not to her face mind you, and not so fondly really. She was memorable, however. We had a mutual dislike of one another almost immediately, which is not something I recommend for any about-to-give-birth woman when forging a relationship with the nurse of the day. But I have digressed.
The first two babies came as surprises. Well, not the babies themselves, for I had ample opportunity to prepare for their additions to our lives. Nine months in fact. It’s just that my husband and I were married for 10 years before conception ever occurred. I was beginning to wonder (WORRY) if I would ever experience the longed for baby in my arms and lay claim to the title of Mother.
Luke, the birthday boy turning adult, was a deliberated decision, a choice to do it one more time, no matter how much I hated being pregnant and the delivery process. I wanted to do it again because the clock was ticking and my time to become a mother again was about to run out.
This is really not where I thought this story was going, but what the heck?
No two pregnancies or birth experiences are alike, I can attest to that. As much as I wanted to enjoy being pregnant because it had taken 10 long, agonizing, be-happy-for-all-my-friends-who-were-becoming-mothers years to finally get pregnant myself, I didn’t; I didn’t enjoy it at all. I tried really hard to like being pregnant but I. Just. Didn’t.
Why is it, if I may ask, that other pregnant women look so darn cute when I felt like the Goodyear blimp? And why too, do the pregnancies of other women seem to pass by as quickly as a week of vacation on the beach, when my own trudged by like the long winter months that refuse to let go so the next season can spring forth?
I felt like I had the flu for the first term of every pregnancy. Yes I did. In fact, the first time around, I thought I did have the flu. My entire body ached and I was as sick as a dog. Not sure how sick that is, but let me tell you, I was can’t-get-out-of-bed sick! For the first four months. It passed and the second trimester was actually enjoyable…ok, not enjoyable per se, but do-able. I could deal.
When the second pregnancy occurred, and let me just add right here and now and for the record that I was thrilled by this discovery, because I truly did want another child, and I didn’t want to wait another 10 years to have another child, but I must admit, getting pregnant again when our daughter was a year old was not quite what I had in mind.
All’s well that ends well.
Our older two kids were 6 and 4 when the baby was born. I chose to do it again. I’m glad I did.
The boy is a man.
His birthday is today.
Our baby turns 18.
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