Happy Birth Day

My oldest daughter's birthday is less than a week away. The approach of each of my children's birthdays inevitably takes me back down Memory Lane to those long, long, long final days of my pregnancies. It's often said that the pain of childbirth is quickly forgotten. That's a big fat lie. You don't forget, you put it in perspective: Hours of insane pain results in a beautiful new baby. Definitely a fair exchange.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.