Latest Possibly Greatest POST-coital
One year ago, this night, I sat on this couch. I had reached the end of Netflix, my patience, ideas to induce labor. After hemming and hawing to the point that even I was sick of the sound of my own voice, I had finally resigned myself to hit the pitocin and force that boy out.
About this time in the evening, my husband and I were sitting in the room on the hospital’s floor for mothers to tend to their pregnancies. Half at their wit’s end, like me, hoping against all hope that this pregnancy will be over soon by starting the induction cocktail. Half, tensely and optimistically really hoping against all hope that the pregnancy would not be over soon. Their babies needed more time on the inside.
Women from both teams would “go” that night, including me. I took one last picture of my husband as an expectant father. Sitting in the darkened room at Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. He smiled an excited grin, flashing his darling dimple and gapped front teeth. He was busy obsessing about his new phone as I said, as I have said three times before, “You know, I think I’m having contractions.” And instead of waiting the rest of the night in angst trying to decipher what my body was trying to tell me, a glorious modern “Call the Midwife” angel came in, and checked my cervix. Just like that. Alas, I was at a 6-7, which meant my bed was soon on it’s way to labor and delivery. And so began the birth of my last child, in his own time.
The birth is his special story – perfect in it’s own way and recorded in a letter in a box for him. The baby is my special gift, representing so much of what is good and rewarding in being a parent. Tonight, he is sleeping in my bed, smelling of Gogurt and wearing the overalls my sister Amanda gave me as my first baby gift when I was pregnant with Lee 1.
When you grieve, they make much of the one year anniversary after “it”, whatever “it” may be, happens. And tonight, one year later, I pause to say goodbye to a period of my life that has exceeded all things precious in my mind and heart. Tonight is the one-year anniversary of my body’s last time being pregnant.
I am sure, truly sure I don’t want another. The possibilities of the life ahead (including the obligatory return to intimacy) bear so much promise – I’ve started working in the yard, playing sports and sewing again (helped, of course, by the fact that my parents have the top three Lees for five [count'em, five] weeks in Austin for Amanda Camp with their six to seven [depending on the day] cousins. They [my parents] built a ginourmous pool and needed help [yeah right] christening it).
Pause, precious baby is crying, will be back to finish after he’s handled.
My whole life, I’ve said, “When I have kids…”
That, you see, was the definitive accomplishment I was aiming for. Job, husband, house – those were all the accoutrements of the main life I envisioned, me as a young mom, pregnant and schlepping babies. Here I’ve lived it, and am now evolving for whatever comes next, which I haven’t really grasped, much less labeled. I don’t know that I qualify as an old mom just yet – not because the age offends me, but because I’m still pretty low on years of experience.
But there’s this horizon I’ve seen in the distance since I was pregnant with Lee 3. Now that I’ve reached it, I realize it’s mid-life.
And because our WHOLE lives we’ve ALWAYS heard it said with the word “crisis” behind it, we think it is something to fear.
Now that I’m here, I’m wondering if that wasn’t a Greenland/Iceland naming ruse, because I’m pretty sure everything about this new stage is awesome.
I just need a moment to mourn the incredible beauty and blessing of the one I’m leaving behind.
Life goes on, ESPECIALLY when there’s the chance to celebrate a baby’s glorious first year of life. Bring on the Casa Linda Bakery buttercream frosting!
Saw this on the desk of Lee 1′s first grade teacher today. Think Dylan R. is looking for some extra credit???
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