Two years ago this very minute, I lay in the tiniest room U Penn could possibly give someone, holding a gently sleeping bundle across my chest, afraid to put him in the bassinet. Afraid to let him out of my arms for fear of missing a single second of his first hours. This was my last child, a boy born from love, strong and little and perfect. His tiny hand amazed me as he curled it so trustingly around my finger, his toes, so small and perfect, reflexively clenched and unclenched into little balls as he lay, warm and secure against my bare chest gently breathing new air. Across the room, tucked against a tiny wall were two of those pink upholstered chairs that U Penn kept in it's waiting and visiting rooms and stretched across both was my husband's six foot four inch frame. His arms crossed over his stomach as he attempted something he'd never done for the three other young ones at home. Sleeping comfortably in a tiny hospital room with his newborn.
The maternity ward was quiet, the murmuring of machines beeping and the occasional nurse checking the baby boy's vitals, giving me pain pills, doing the routine things maternity nurses do during the long night. Each time they entered the room, I pulled him closer, loathe to let him go for even a second. These things matter, as a chapter of your life closes. The little moments you took for granted when you were still young and the future lay wide open before you. Now, I was almost thirty three years old and had just given birth for the very last time.
It had been a pregnancy of momentous proportions, you know. Those of you who actually have had the time and caring to know me from the beginning or middle of my young life, understand why I was so determined to have a large family and exactly how precious each of my little ones actually are. For those of you who don't, here's the short synopsis leaving out the details that tend to clutter life.
My brother and I were adopted by an elderly couple who made it known that children were precious especially to those who couldn't have their own. As an extremely young teenager, I was raped repeatedly, the ending result was an eventual diagnosis that I was damaged and children were "more likely than not" not going to be apart of my adult life. At nineteen, the doctors were proven wrong, and I was told I wouldn't have anymore, at twenty two I was again able to prove the doctors wrong with my wonderful oldest son. For the next seven years it seemed the doctors were right as they told me I wouldn't be able to have anymore. So I contented myself with the two miracles my lord had given me.
Oh, how the years flew so fast with them! Oh lord everything was new and learning and exciting and looking back on it now, I rushed so fast with their baby years that before I knew it, I was almost thirty and they were halfway there.
During the grief of my mother's passing, I looked at that husband of mine and made the only actual demand of him in our married life I'd ever made, "If you want to save me, to save us, give me another baby." Even after seven years of unprotected intercourse with no living results, I prayed and prayed and begged and finally, actually, just one month after I told him to, I was pregnant with my little Princess Peaches. Oh how joyous that occasion was!
She was a good pregnancy, came right on time, exactly ten years, ten days, four hours and twenty minutes after my oldest daughter's birthday and was such a good baby. So pleasant and terrific. I spent hours enjoying just being her mama. Knowing that this was yet another blessing from my Father. I mean, what else could it be? And with her, I slowed down and learned and taught and was content. I knew I was never getting pregnant again because I was so happy and also because while God rewards, he doesn't reward selfishness and another baby would be too greedy....
For three years it was sweet and contentment. Then I had the flu for three months. I seriously thought at one time it was cancer or something equally bad and had to go to specialists and things before they found my little stow-away. Talk about Surprise! I came home and the next thing I knew, I was EXPECTING! Again! Oh thank God! Praise the Lord!
People who don't know me, who don't understand what I've been through, who I've never trusted in my perimeters that far, they called me crazy. They said I was stupid not to 'take care of it'. I was told that it was irresponsible. But there was never any doubt in my mind. Quite the opposite, I have never been so "certain" of anything in my entire life. To the point that when the doctor told me I was due January third and I argued. "He will be born January ninth, my daddy's birthday and it will be before three o'clock in the afternoon." Well, the third came and went, as did the following days, but then, at one o'clock in the morning of the ninth, I had the sudden urge to "girly" things up.
Long soak in the tub, facial, wash and style my hair. I put on the pretty maternity sweater my sister in law had given me and went about like I was going on a date. At seven am on the ninth my contractions were light, but ten minutes apart so I went to the hospital and exactly ten years, fifteen days and thirty six minutes exactly after my oldest baby boy's birthday, I was pushing my beautiful infant boy into the cool hospital air as easily as counting to four.
Again I was told, "This is it" because there were physical complications and stuff that I don't want to drag up to sully the story, but here it was, thirteen years after I began the wonderful, wondrous, exciting and adventurous journey of motherhood, I found myself at the end of the "having babies" stage and standing with my feet firmly set in the "Cherishing baby" stage.
This is why, at exactly this moment two years ago, I was lying in my hospital bed located in the tiniest room U Penn could possibly give someone, holding a gently sleeping bundle across my chest, afraid to put him in the bassinet. Afraid to let him out of my arms for fear of missing a single second of his first hours. This was my last child, a boy born from love, strong and tiny and perfect.
Two years of moments and memories and happy and sad. Yeah, I have to say God adores me. .
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