Involved

I cried in front of my child for the first time today, and she screwed up her forehead in confusion, Ma, get a grip? I had been thinking about Baby Isaac all morning, and I blinked back tears when the update came. His parents only got 16 minutes. 9 months for 16 minutes. So I cried because I have a healthy child, one that pulled on the needypants today and sat the butt of her needypants right on top of my last nerve and then pretended it was a see-saw. It is unfair. It is unfair that I have this blessing, even when it's wearing needypants, and that others who are aching for one do not. I had to call Loverpants this morning, just to tell him how distraught I was over Baby Isaac whose parents I may never even meet. He told me that I wasn't involved.  It is his job to do so. My social worker husband is good at reminding me that I am not involved. But I am involved, and I have been involved. I peed on a stick and saw a plus sign and I became involved in a movement, a nameless force that sometimes drives me to do insane things for the love of someone that will inevitably hate me one day for loving her so much, a force that compels me to feel in a deep and real way for anyone who has carried another living soul inside of herself and for all others who wait in expectation.  God bless Baby Isaac and his parents whose pain I cannot begin to fathom, but which I can very much try to imagine, especially because I am involved.

Listen to the Mama

I made my way to the bathroom and reconfirmed that there was a God and His name was Mercy. The deluge of fluid would have flooded a small rice paddie and netted a strong harvest. Had my dam broken at Workplace, uh HOAH. I would still be hiding in the file cabinet. The excitement of my water breaking was soon followed by the onset of panic. There was no going back. A baby was coming. Oh my goodness. And it was going to come down this very same waterslide.

I considered my next steps. First off, what could I expect next from the gushings. Like, should I swaddle myself? Grab a mop? Check the weather report to see if this extreme precipitation was showing up on Doppler Radar?

This panic was heightened as I returned to the bed where the man who was 50% responsible for This Whole Thing was not sleeping. In fact, he was already at the hospital. But not The Hospital. The Other Hospital, to where he had been paged about an hour earlier. An hour earlier when I informed him to hurry back soon, because tonight was probably going to be The Night.

To be continued....

Listen to the Man

If you're reading this, Mom, pretend you're not reading this and pretend to be out-of-skull surprised when you receive the call from Baby Daddy... Two days ago, my father left me a message regarding a reliable way to induce labor. My father is a bona fide EXPERT on birth, so much that when I was born, he was likely so sicked out by even the thought of watching a wrinkled kewpie doll crown that he went to the cafeteria and ate a tuna sandwich.

So clearly his counsel was to be taken seriously as the tried, true words of a man who's BEEN THERE.

"Just remember this: Balsamic. Dressing," he said effusively, over voicemail.

Last night I had a delicious green salad, cheffed up by the hands of Lovey Loverpants. Walnuts. Red peppers. Cheese. Drizzled with balsamic dressing.

Four hours later and Hoover Dam broke.

Stay tuned...