So. As I mentioned in my last post, yesterday (Mother's Day) was my oldest son's sixth birthday. For some reason I got really nostalgic over this one, and I'm not one to get emotional over that kind of stuff. I don't post pictures of my babies with comments like "Today my baby is seventeen weeks and five days old! Where is the time going?" Because even though every moment of my kids' waking lives is totally precious to me, when they are throwing a tantrum because they DIDN'T GET THE RED CUP to drink out of those moments can actually feel like a million years.
But yesterday was different. Maybe because this is the first year since he's been born that my son's birthday actually fell on Mother's Day.
Or because this year I know, without a doubt, that my child-bearing days are over and all I can think about are those first few days with a newborn and how I'll never have that again.
Or maybe it's because my "baby" is almost done with kindergarten, stopped sucking his thumb last week, and watches TV shows that aren't animated or feature puppets (Adios Dora, Hey, Jessie!). What's next? Driving? Shaving? His own apartment?
So I started thinking about how it all began...
It's July 2007. Husband and I decide we are ready for a baby. True, we have only been married for a year but to be honest, we've already run out of stuff to talk about at the dinner table. Let's have a baby! Let's have three! Dinner conversations will be a thing of the past, replaced by whining and wheedling, food throwing, and burping contests. We'll be lucky if we even make eye contact at dinner, let alone discuss current events without someone being called a 'poopy head.' (To be fair, most people involved in current events kinda deserve to be called a 'poopy head.')
So, at my annual visit to the OBGYN I mention that Husband and I are maybe thinking that now would be a good time to have a baby. "Great," says my doctor, a mild mannered man from Southeast Asia who I've only seen once since I just moved to Columbus the year before, "just have as much intercourse as you can and if nothing happens in six months, come see me."
Wait, what? That's IT? No mention of the HUGE responsibility that is being a parent? No questions as to whether my husband and I are PREPARED - financially, emotionally, physically-to RAISE A CHILD? Infertile and same sex couples trying to adopt a baby have to go through rigorous background checks and psychological evaluations but any couple with a functioning uterus and halfway decent sperm count is given the green light to go home and have at it like animals?
(Don't worry, Dad, we did NOT have at it like animals).
When I question the doctor about whether this laissez-faire attitude is really responsible, he breaks it down for me like this: "I delivered a baby to a thirteen year old today." OK, I got it. I'm 28, I'm gainfully employed. My husband's on board. Let's DO this!
(Don't worry, Dad, we didn't really DO anything. Your grandsons were the product of a wink and a handshake).
Fast forward six weeks. Six positive pregnancy tests later I come to find out the women in my family are, historically, incredibly fertile. For some reason my mom withheld that information from me growing up but I make sure to spread the word to all female relatives of childbearing age (WRAP IT UP, girlfriends!)
I am back at the doctor seeing my baby's heartbeat for the first time. "Well, that didn't take long!" says my doctor as he prints out the sonogram pictures for me to post on the fridge, hand out to the soon-to-be grandparents, and file in the baby book. Husband is next to me.
For the record, by the time we get to baby #3, Husband is no longer coming to the doctor appointments with me. I believe he saw the first sonogram pic when he found it in a kitchen drawer while looking for batteries.
"Crazy! " I say. "Especially since he's ALWAYS out of town!"
"Yeah," says Husband, "when can I get a paternity test?"
The doctor goes white. "Ummm..." he stammers, "well...you see--"
"Stop!" I yell, sitting up, wiping the goo off my belly and glaring at Husband. "It's totally HIS baby."
When asked why the doctor 'couldn't take a joke', Husband's uncle, a practicing OB/GYN, tells us "You wouldn't believe what we see every day. Paternity tests aren't something patients usually 'joke' about." Husband doesn't understand why I find that joke personally insulting.
The rest of the pregnancy is fairly uneventful. We find out the baby is a boy at twenty weeks and Husband high fives everyone in the room. We decide on a name, buy some blue stuff, and at the third trimester ultrasound Husband spends more time talking about college sports with the doctor than about the baby.
As we are walking out of the doctor's office after that last appointment he shakes Husband's hand and say, "I can't WAIT to meet this kid." I'm not sure that's a compliment.
The night of May 10th arrives and I'm having contractions roughly every eight to ten minutes. It's late, the CAVS just lost a playoff game, and Husband and I decide to go to bed because this is probably just false labor, right? First babies never come on time. I'm so tired and all I really want to do is get a good night's sleep. Baby can wait until morning to come, right? HA! First of all, I don't even know what tired IS right now, but I am about five days and a nervous breakdown away from finding out. Second of all, this will be the last time I DARE to think that I might have any kind of say over the quantity or quality of a night's sleep.
The contractions are down to every six minutes and I look at Husband. "I don't think we're ready for this." I say.
What I MEAN is: "The swing hasn't been assembled, the bottles aren't sterilized and I forgot to buy those little mittens you put over newborn's hands so they don't accidentally scratch their faces."
What he HEARS is: "We are SO not ready to be parents." He stares at me. But before he can say anything... POP. My water breaks and it's GO TIME.
Six years later, here I am. Three pregnancies, three baby boys, and three different doctors who Husband has unsuccessfully played the "paternity test" joke on (Still not funny! Still offensive to me!).
And I'm still wondering if I'm ready for this. Only this time it's not whether or not I'm ready for a baby, it's whether I'm ready for coach-pitch softball and no-more-training-wheels and being a mom to a first grader. It's whether I'm ready to answer questions like "Where does God live?" and "How do your eyes SEE?" and "Why can't I marry YOU when I grow up?"
But, like so many other things I've done since my first child was born, I've learned to "fake it till I make it."? (Don't worry, husband, I've never actually faked IT).
There have been SO MANY times in the past six years when I thought 'I'm really screwing this up" and felt like I was in way over my head but guess what? The kid totally doesn't know that, in fact he thinks I'm the "best mom in the history of moms!"
Seriously, he SAYS that.
Happy sixth birthday, Ari Samuel!
But yesterday was different. Maybe because this is the first year since he's been born that my son's birthday actually fell on Mother's Day.
Or because this year I know, without a doubt, that my child-bearing days are over and all I can think about are those first few days with a newborn and how I'll never have that again.
Or maybe it's because my "baby" is almost done with kindergarten, stopped sucking his thumb last week, and watches TV shows that aren't animated or feature puppets (Adios Dora, Hey, Jessie!). What's next? Driving? Shaving? His own apartment?
So I started thinking about how it all began...
It's July 2007. Husband and I decide we are ready for a baby. True, we have only been married for a year but to be honest, we've already run out of stuff to talk about at the dinner table. Let's have a baby! Let's have three! Dinner conversations will be a thing of the past, replaced by whining and wheedling, food throwing, and burping contests. We'll be lucky if we even make eye contact at dinner, let alone discuss current events without someone being called a 'poopy head.' (To be fair, most people involved in current events kinda deserve to be called a 'poopy head.')
So, at my annual visit to the OBGYN I mention that Husband and I are maybe thinking that now would be a good time to have a baby. "Great," says my doctor, a mild mannered man from Southeast Asia who I've only seen once since I just moved to Columbus the year before, "just have as much intercourse as you can and if nothing happens in six months, come see me."
Wait, what? That's IT? No mention of the HUGE responsibility that is being a parent? No questions as to whether my husband and I are PREPARED - financially, emotionally, physically-to RAISE A CHILD? Infertile and same sex couples trying to adopt a baby have to go through rigorous background checks and psychological evaluations but any couple with a functioning uterus and halfway decent sperm count is given the green light to go home and have at it like animals?
(Don't worry, Dad, we did NOT have at it like animals).
When I question the doctor about whether this laissez-faire attitude is really responsible, he breaks it down for me like this: "I delivered a baby to a thirteen year old today." OK, I got it. I'm 28, I'm gainfully employed. My husband's on board. Let's DO this!
(Don't worry, Dad, we didn't really DO anything. Your grandsons were the product of a wink and a handshake).
Fast forward six weeks. Six positive pregnancy tests later I come to find out the women in my family are, historically, incredibly fertile. For some reason my mom withheld that information from me growing up but I make sure to spread the word to all female relatives of childbearing age (WRAP IT UP, girlfriends!)
I am back at the doctor seeing my baby's heartbeat for the first time. "Well, that didn't take long!" says my doctor as he prints out the sonogram pictures for me to post on the fridge, hand out to the soon-to-be grandparents, and file in the baby book. Husband is next to me.
For the record, by the time we get to baby #3, Husband is no longer coming to the doctor appointments with me. I believe he saw the first sonogram pic when he found it in a kitchen drawer while looking for batteries.
"Crazy! " I say. "Especially since he's ALWAYS out of town!"
"Yeah," says Husband, "when can I get a paternity test?"
The doctor goes white. "Ummm..." he stammers, "well...you see--"
"Stop!" I yell, sitting up, wiping the goo off my belly and glaring at Husband. "It's totally HIS baby."
When asked why the doctor 'couldn't take a joke', Husband's uncle, a practicing OB/GYN, tells us "You wouldn't believe what we see every day. Paternity tests aren't something patients usually 'joke' about." Husband doesn't understand why I find that joke personally insulting.
The rest of the pregnancy is fairly uneventful. We find out the baby is a boy at twenty weeks and Husband high fives everyone in the room. We decide on a name, buy some blue stuff, and at the third trimester ultrasound Husband spends more time talking about college sports with the doctor than about the baby.
As we are walking out of the doctor's office after that last appointment he shakes Husband's hand and say, "I can't WAIT to meet this kid." I'm not sure that's a compliment.
The night of May 10th arrives and I'm having contractions roughly every eight to ten minutes. It's late, the CAVS just lost a playoff game, and Husband and I decide to go to bed because this is probably just false labor, right? First babies never come on time. I'm so tired and all I really want to do is get a good night's sleep. Baby can wait until morning to come, right? HA! First of all, I don't even know what tired IS right now, but I am about five days and a nervous breakdown away from finding out. Second of all, this will be the last time I DARE to think that I might have any kind of say over the quantity or quality of a night's sleep.
The contractions are down to every six minutes and I look at Husband. "I don't think we're ready for this." I say.
What I MEAN is: "The swing hasn't been assembled, the bottles aren't sterilized and I forgot to buy those little mittens you put over newborn's hands so they don't accidentally scratch their faces."
What he HEARS is: "We are SO not ready to be parents." He stares at me. But before he can say anything... POP. My water breaks and it's GO TIME.
Six years later, here I am. Three pregnancies, three baby boys, and three different doctors who Husband has unsuccessfully played the "paternity test" joke on (Still not funny! Still offensive to me!).
And I'm still wondering if I'm ready for this. Only this time it's not whether or not I'm ready for a baby, it's whether I'm ready for coach-pitch softball and no-more-training-wheels and being a mom to a first grader. It's whether I'm ready to answer questions like "Where does God live?" and "How do your eyes SEE?" and "Why can't I marry YOU when I grow up?"
But, like so many other things I've done since my first child was born, I've learned to "fake it till I make it."? (Don't worry, husband, I've never actually faked IT).
There have been SO MANY times in the past six years when I thought 'I'm really screwing this up" and felt like I was in way over my head but guess what? The kid totally doesn't know that, in fact he thinks I'm the "best mom in the history of moms!"
Seriously, he SAYS that.
Happy sixth birthday, Ari Samuel!
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