My children.

They’re grown up now, of course, but in my mind. . . . I can still see them at all stages and all ages. Most of the traumas and inconveniences and phases and embarrassments and did I mention traumas, have faded from my memory (unless we’re arguing and they’re winning and I want to make a point. . . .) and I remember mostly the good things.

I remember how my daughter appeared to be bald until she was three years old, unless you got close enough to her to touch her head, and then you’d know that she really had hair; it was just so blond, it was invisible. I remember how my son was born with a shock of bright red hair, so outstandingly red that people used to congregate in the hospital hallway and gawk at him.

I was nervous about giving birth, that first time. All I knew was what people had told me, and what I’d read in books. Much of what people told me were their horror stories, of 36-hour labors, and pain so horrible it made someone cry just to remember it, and gushing blood and episiotomies that went wrong, and hemmorrhoids for the rest of your life, and agony, agony, agony. . . etc. I turned out to be one of those women who had babies easily.

First baby: 5 hours.
Second baby: 20 minutes.

In the old country, or the olden days, I would have popped babies out behind a tree, slung them on my back, and gone back to the fields.

I once consider being a surrogate for someone, but it didn’t work out. Family politics got in the way. Looking back, I wish I’d done it.

Women who had difficult labors probably hate me already right now, but I’ll go ahead and make it worse: I loved being pregnant. I felt GREAT.

Even when I was sitting still, doing nothing, I was still doing something wonderfully productive.

I had fun with my babies, too. I made zillions of mistakes and did tons of stupid things, but I had fun. I hope they did, too.

I know I was half-asleep through a lot of it, esp. anything that happened in the early morning hours, and I know know I was an odd mommy, and I hated having to leave them and go to work but I had no choice, and I know I packed some really bizarre lunches for them to take to school, and I know it’s probably my fault that both of them are night owls like me, and I know I embarrassed them a lot (that was my job, after all) but I also know that the good things far outweighed the bad, even if I could remember all the bad, which I don’t, which is probably best for the perpetuation of mankind.

After all, they’re alive, and they’re still speaking to me. I call that a good sign.

This ramble probably makes no sense, but I’m sitting here at 1:23 in the morning, feeling guilty because I never even attempted to touch my quizzes that must be returned tomorrow, and wishing I could solve all the problems of the world with a wave of my hand, and knowing I can’t, and wishing I could, anyway, and wondering why some people have to be so cruel, and wondering how some people can be so upbeat in the face of unspeakable horror, and wishing I were thinner, and nicer, and more fun, and knowing I probably could be if only I weren’t also so lazy. . . . .

Maybe I should go to bed and get up early, to finish the quizzes. There are all kinds, aren’t there. The quizzes in my briefcase have easy answers.