Every woman that has ever given birth has vivid memories of all occurrences surrounding that event. We each have our own stories; I won’t trouble you with mine, beyond these few reminiscences.
We were nineteen, naive and frightened, trying hard to be grown-up with little idea of what that entailed.
My husband started out driving too fast to the hospital. I told him it wasn’t necessary to speed. He checked it back and stayed within the speed limit while, jaws clenched, he drove through every single stop sign and red light without stopping, all the way to the hospital.
We had agreed that this would be our time, that we’d make calls to family and friends after our baby was born. As soon as he got me checked into a room, my husband called his parents and mine, begging them all to come right away. I think he may have called an uncle and a couple cousins, too.
At one point my mother came and sat at my bedside. I was in hard labor. “Oh, Mom, this really hurts,” I said. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Cindy, don’t you think I know that?!?” was her quick reply. I should have known better than to try to garner sympathy from someone who had given birth eleven times!
At three o’clock in the morning, Sunday, January 23rd, the nurse put my baby girl in my arms. I opened the blankets…counted fingers and toes…ran a finger along her tiny cheek… a palm over her small head…and fell madly in love with my new daughter.
It was all about me that night. Today, it’s all about her.
Happy Birthday, Jennifer!