When I took a home pregnancy test a little over 12 years
ago, I was not happy with the results. I
cried. And cried. And panicked. And cried.
For days.
I did not want children.
Though I actually really like children, and they have always been
strangely attracted to me, other people’s kids went home, and it wasn’t mine. I have very little patience. I don’t like messy things. I am easily grossed out. Babytalk makes me gag. I like to have everything all lined up and know
what to expect. I like to drink wine,
and hang out with friends and spontaneously just go places. I’m not made of the things I thought mothers
were made of.
I was also single, with a job and career, athletic, and
travel goals, and not a lot of money. I
lived in a 600 square foot apartment with a very clingy, protective dog whom
was not going to let some small human too near me.
I went to my OB/GYN, who confirmed my future. A few days later, I could eat nothing but
saltines and water, for weeks. I was
given medication and it didn’t help. On
a subsequent visit, I learned I had gestational diabetes. No more saltines, they were not on my
approved food list. Neither were
potatoes, bread, pasta, fried foods, anything sweet, basically anything I lived
on. Being a runner with a carb addiction
for over 15 years at that time, I didn’t know what to eat, and had trouble
gaining weight.
When I was 23-1/2 weeks pregnant, a few days after I
actually just started exclusively wearing maternity clothes, I had some
contractions. I looked in my “What to
Expect When You’re Expecting” book and deduced they were Braxton-Hicks
contractions, perfectly normal. The next
day I was at work and went to the bathroom.
And there was blood. I called my
boyfriend and he picked me up and took me to the hospital. I had lost my mucus plug and was
dilated. I was having premature
labor.
I was given drugs to stop it, and a steroid shot to help my
baby’s lungs grow. My doctor wanted me
to stay in the hospital. Because of my
aforementioned dog, I talked him into bedrest at home. I was not allowed to work, even from
home. I was not even supposed to get out
of bed except to use the bathroom and shower.
I was not allowed to take that dog for a walk, luckily for me I could
open my door, he’d run down the stairs and do his business and run right back
up. I had to have people shop for
me. And drive me to doctor’s appointments,
of which there were many. I had to see
my doctor and go to the hospital for an ultrasound weekly.
Really, all this?
When I wasn’t even planning to have a child? Apparently God was trying to show me I DID
have the stuff mothers are made of. And
in that time I started really getting attached to that little baby.
At my ultrasound
appointment at 29-1/2 weeks, the tech got a worried look on her face. She sent me to the waiting room and told me
not to leave, she was calling my doctor.
After 20 minutes, she came out and told me I was to go straight to his
office. She handed me a 3-D image of my
son, something that at the time was not the norm. I later learned she wanted me to have a
picture of my child, alive.
The office was a block away, I was there 2 minutes
later. Despite a waiting room full of
patients, the nurse ran right out and took me to an exam room. Ten minutes later there was a room reserved
for me at the hospital, I was on my way to be induced.
Family was called, as well as a wonderful friend who prayed
with me and held my hand and talked to my doctor in Spanish with both of them
thinking I didn’t know what they were saying.
My baby was in distress.
The cord was around his neck. He
was upside down and backwards. I was so
scared that I was going to lose that little child I hadn’t thought I wanted, as was everyone else.
I was given drugs to induce labor, my water was broken, and
later was given an epidural. A room was
reserved for a C-Section in case I needed it.
It didn’t have to be used, but the delivery was not easy. I could see the stress in my doctor’s eyes.
Finally, he was here.
But he wasn’t crying, wasn’t making a sound. I wasn’t allowed to see and touch him. The neonatologist was called and he was
surrounded by medical people. Finally,
he was breathing, and then he was rushed off out of the delivery room. I didn’t even know what that 4-1/2 pound
little boy looked like.
Tonight, he is a few months from being 12 years old, and is fast asleep in his room, in his little “cave”
created in his bottom bunk. His room is
full of his beloved stuff, his stuffed animals, his video games, his baseball
memorabilia. He is an outstanding
athlete – he has been an All Star baseball player since the first year he
started and has even beat his former college cross-country runner mother in a
local road race. He has the greatest sense
of humor and is very entertaining. He is
caring and loyal and sensitive. He makes
a mean turkey burger and homemade lemonade.
I don’t know what I would do without that kid. I really don't. He is my joy.
A joy that 12 years ago I never imagined was possible.
No, things are not perfect.
We deal with ADHD and learning disabilities, and are ready to kill each
other after its taken 3 hours to complete 20 minutes of homework. He can’t tie his shoes and has trouble with
eating utensils due to fine motor skill impairments. He has learned sarcasm from, um, someone, and
is not afraid to use it, often at not very ideal times. He is messy and tries my patience and does
gross stuff and will talk babytalk just to annoy me.
But that’s why they have wine.
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