Sixteen years ago today, I was very pregnant, very anxious and, true to the perfectionist that lives inside of me, going crazy making sure that all my plans were in place before the main event scheduled to arrive on October 18th. I prided myself on the fact that I had read 26 books about pregnancy and a child's first years, I had studied and I was ready for my test. Not one to leave details to someone else, I had already submitted a carefully crafted and explicit birth plan to my doctor whom I adored as he was an older gentleman who took his time with me and answered the 42,000 questions that I had had, all with kindness and understanding. Over the course of the nine months, however, I made sure to visit each with doctor in my practice so that there would be no surprises on the day I delievered. What I had not planned for (probably because everyone I knew told me that the first child is rarely delivered on its due date) was the fact that I went into labor in the middle of the night on October 8th. Of course, my bags had been packed a month in advance so there was no worry there except that my husband was so nervous getting out of the house, the bag got stuck in the doorway twice before I told him to turn it sideways to make it through (he also forgot the bag with all my toiletries in it and I had to ask the night nurse for a toothbrush and some toothpaste!).
By the time I was almost in full labor, I had thrown that birth plan right out the window because I wanted drugs and lots of them. Once I had the epidural and I had released my death grip on my husband's hand, things began to move along more smoothly until the doctor arrived. Now, although I was in labor and I knew I was not looking my best, I pacified myself with the knowledge that my doctor would not even take notice. I could be unselfconscious and just relax. Wrong. Just as I knew delivery was close, the door opened and in walked an extremely young and terribly good-looking doctor with a killer smile who was subbing for my doctor who became unavailalbe at the last moment. I tried covering up a little (giving birth is not pretty, you know) but realised all too soon that this was one of those 'whatever' moments and I focused on the birth of my gorgeous baby boy.
So, here we are almost 16 years later and I would never have believed that that little newborn would turn into my handsome teenage son. He has brought me so much joy and laughter (okay, and tons of sarcasm and eye rolling, too) that I could never imagine my life without him. In fact, I loved being pregnant so much so that I did it again and again and again and you know what? All the pain and torture of delivery (and the embarrassment, too) was instantaneously forgotten the minute he was placed in my arms.
Happy 16th Birthday!