Eight…
My oldest is eight years old today. Eight. I have an eight year old son. If I keep saying it, maybe it will be real. I knew this day would come. I’ve known it since the day he was born. But … here it is. Wow. That was fast.
I remember the day he was born—well, sort of. I’d been in the hospital for two and half days and was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get out! I think God lets women be pregnant for nine grueling months to make them desperate to have possession of their bodies again. Labor doesn't seems so daunting when that's the prize. Anyway...the day went on and on and on and all I could think about was how I didn’t get to eat. I saw the chocolate cake everyone else had with dinner. Did I get any? No. All I had was a dripping I.V. and a little button that delivered epidural relief whenever I wanted it. By late that evening I was coasting along in a drug induced haze. I was so relaxed, the chocolate cake ceased to matter. I sat there in a very Zen like state. Want me to push? Ok. Want me to turn on my side? Shuuuuure. If you like I’ll even bark like a dog or sing Queen at the top of my lungs. Then all of a sudden, monitors started beeping and my doctor disappeared. A few seconds passed and the room exploded into action. Nurses, more than I’d seen since I'd started my incarceration in Labor and Delivery were whirling around me, their scrubs creating a sort of kaleidoscope effect. Now there were two doctors. One of them said to me, “You win!” Really? What did I win? Some chocolate cake? Everyone was moving fast but saying nothing to me. I calmly asked, “So, am I having a c-section?” No response. Next time I sat up a little and raised my hand, “Excuse me, AM I HAVING A C-SECTION?” Evidently the large pregnant lady on the bed with messy hair and no make-up was invisible. I’d expended all my energy just trying to sit up. I couldn’t feel my legs. Who cared. I laid back and relaxed and was whisked into surgery. Yeah…I’m having a c-section. Post-op, I have some very unflattering video coverage of me laying in my sterile hospital bed, slacked mouthed and drooling. Baby? What baby? I didn’t regain consciousness until the next morning. But when I did, oh my! There was this absolutely gorgeous baby boy waiting for me, a warm bundle cocooned in flannel and smelling new. I was instantly smitten...no in love...with this little life.
My oldest is eight years old today. Eight. I have an eight year old son. If I keep saying it, maybe it will be real. I knew this day would come. I’ve known it since the day he was born. But … here it is. Wow. That was fast.
I remember the day he was born—well, sort of. I’d been in the hospital for two and half days and was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get out! I think God lets women be pregnant for nine grueling months to make them desperate to have possession of their bodies again. Labor doesn't seems so daunting when that's the prize. Anyway...the day went on and on and on and all I could think about was how I didn’t get to eat. I saw the chocolate cake everyone else had with dinner. Did I get any? No. All I had was a dripping I.V. and a little button that delivered epidural relief whenever I wanted it. By late that evening I was coasting along in a drug induced haze. I was so relaxed, the chocolate cake ceased to matter. I sat there in a very Zen like state. Want me to push? Ok. Want me to turn on my side? Shuuuuure. If you like I’ll even bark like a dog or sing Queen at the top of my lungs. Then all of a sudden, monitors started beeping and my doctor disappeared. A few seconds passed and the room exploded into action. Nurses, more than I’d seen since I'd started my incarceration in Labor and Delivery were whirling around me, their scrubs creating a sort of kaleidoscope effect. Now there were two doctors. One of them said to me, “You win!” Really? What did I win? Some chocolate cake? Everyone was moving fast but saying nothing to me. I calmly asked, “So, am I having a c-section?” No response. Next time I sat up a little and raised my hand, “Excuse me, AM I HAVING A C-SECTION?” Evidently the large pregnant lady on the bed with messy hair and no make-up was invisible. I’d expended all my energy just trying to sit up. I couldn’t feel my legs. Who cared. I laid back and relaxed and was whisked into surgery. Yeah…I’m having a c-section. Post-op, I have some very unflattering video coverage of me laying in my sterile hospital bed, slacked mouthed and drooling. Baby? What baby? I didn’t regain consciousness until the next morning. But when I did, oh my! There was this absolutely gorgeous baby boy waiting for me, a warm bundle cocooned in flannel and smelling new. I was instantly smitten...no in love...with this little life.
Eight years have passed. I'm not sure what I did with all that time. I spent a lot of it worrying unnecessarily. That's what moms do. But it's been a ride watching him learn and grow...learning to let go of him by degrees. I hope as time continues to pass that he won't question how much he is loved in our home. I hope we can infuse his life with as much joy and adventure as he has brought into ours.
2 comments:
What would we do without Chuck E Cheese? An 8 year old...wow... does he know everything he needs to know to get baptised? He's a little doll and growing up fast. I LOVE the way the teeth are all different lengths at this age. Colett's daughter will be 8 in Dec. and her teeth are the same. It's so endearing.
Joan
Hey! No, you were not on the list of 2 horrible roommates (though you probably know one of them) and yes, my address is still the same.
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