Mamacita says: June is a busy month here, as both of my beautiful children have June birthdays. Last week was my daughter’s birthday, and today is my son’s birthday.
I remember so well the night he was born. Well, every parent remembers details, but his are unique. He was almost born in the car, because of the railroad track that goes right smack through the center of downtown. As we pulled up to the track, we heard the train. But let me start at the beginning.
I’ve posted this before, but it’s especially poignant today.
I woke up already in labor. When I tell you that I am a comatose sleeper, I am not exaggerating. It’s bizarre, really: alarms and radios and doorbells and conversation and labor? I’m unconscious. But let a child turn over in his/her bed, barely making a sound, and I’m wide awake and alert. Go figure.
We packed up the newly two-year-old Sara and ran for the car. Thankfully, it started.
We lived way out in the country then, and the hospital was on the opposite side of the county. We had a ways to drive.
When we got to town, we heard the train. Tim stopped, of course, and looked carefully at the approaching bright light.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Gun it,” I replied.
So we did.
We pulled up in front of my parents’ house, where Mom was waiting on the sidewalk. We literally tossed Sara out the window and raced towards the Medical Center.
Tim dropped me off at the emergency entrance and went to park the car.
When he came back a few minutes later, the doctor and I were standing out in the hallway admiring the baby.
Truthfully, I’ve had, um, “constipational disorders” that were worse than my son’s birth. He weighed a little over eight pounds and the whole evening had an aura of unreality to it, because it was so easy. The worst part of it was my whiny crybaby roommate.
Yes, my son’s birth was a cinch. The whole thing (after I woke up) lasted about twenty minutes. No problems, no sweat. He later made up for lost time but I digress.
His bright red hair shone like the red planet among stars in the hospital nursery. Visitors would comment about it.
“Hey, lookit the one with the red hair, did you ever see anything like that before?”
And of course, nobody ever had. And he was MINE.
My little son, who has brought joy and laughter to my life. My precious and beautiful boy-child, whose glowing red hair is now shoulder-length, which doesn’t bother me in the least as I am a former long-haired hippie-type myself. My freckle-faced smiley boy whose arms and legs and heaven knows what else are covered with tattoos.
My tiny loving little boy, who cried over sad stories and poems, who knows how to play Pan pipes and bagpipes and bassoons, cooks like a top chef, and who would win a philosophical debate with anyone on the planet.
My nearly-seven-feet-tall son, almost ready to graduate from college, living in a bachelor pad on the top floor of an old apartment complex, who hates to drive and takes the bus or walks wherever he goes. Well, sometimes young women drive him around; you know how it is. Young women with excellent taste, I might add.
My beautiful son, who is a computer expert and works in the IT department of the college where I teach. I love running into him in the hall, and watching him at work, helping people, doing complicated things with wires and plugs and stuff that would make Arthur Weasley pee his pants with excitement. When I look at my son, I feel a surge of love and pride combined that is so intense, there are no words yet invented to describe it.
His birth was easy. His journey to adulthood contained some serious trials, but he is now a cool and intelligent young man, and if you send me your resume and pass my rather lengthy interview process, I will consider introducing you.
And, of course, if you do marry my son, you will have ME as your mother- in- law. Talk about PERFECTION, right?
Right?
Mamacita says: Even when I was a child, I was a reader. Not just a reader-in-school, either; I was a READER. When I wasn’t climbing the apple trees next door, skating around the block, or riding my bicycle, I was reading. I read at home. I read at church. I read at school, between little short assignments that took ten minutes but which were alloted an hour.
breathed fresh air in their lives – they go from hermetically sealed homes to hermetically sealed schools, with the occasional jaunt to air-conditioned WalMarts and malls. I bet a lot of “allergies” are really just the body’s reaction to fresh air. It’s the lungs gasping and saying, “What IS this stuff?”