Perpetuating the Cycle of Life
It was unexpected, that overwhelming love that encompassed my soul for a squalling, red-faced infant covered in the aftermath of birth’s remnants. It was like no other feeling I’d felt or even fathomed possible. I don't wish to sound cliché, but it was truly nothing short of miraculous and something not privy to the transcription of mere words.
I’d never expected to want a baby – never had a burning desire to feel that strange sensation of another life inside of me for fear it would be something alien like. Giving birth to a tiny human being was never a part of a life to which I gravitated, but at the precipice of thirty years of age, I decided to do it, mostly because all of my close friends were having children and I didn’t want to be left out. I know it’s not exactly an ideal reason to have a child, but I was young and ignorant. In addition, the expectation of having a baby, especially after four years of marriage, was another catalyst to my first child’s conception.
The first trimester was filled with nausea and acid reflux. Not precisely the start of something greatly desired. Only the persistent inability to eat, a nagging backache, and the thump of a small, yet surprisingly strong, heartbeat, confirmed that I was with child. How could something the size of a grain of rice make me feel so bad? The one positive part of my first trimester was that I did not suffer from increased bouts of sleepiness like most do. If anything, I had trouble sleeping due to increased restlessness, which also continued for the duration of my pregnancy. Perhaps it was nature’s way of preparing me, a person who loved sleeping and napping, for a life in which such luxuries would to be fairly nonexistent.
Almost immediately into my fourth month or second trimester, I began to feel human again. The nausea and acid reflux subsided, and I would even go so far as to say I felt better than ever before. I began craving salty food. Much later, my grandmother would tell me she had craved the same while pregnant and even resorted to licking piles of salt from her hand to satisfy the craving. How strange that pregnancy related symptoms like specific cravings can travel through different generations. I was nearly five months along when I felt the slightest flutter: the tell-tale movement of a baby that was only about eight inches long and less than six ounces. Unlike my previous alien references to such an event, wonder filled me, and I immediately longed to feel the same sensation repeatedly. Little did I know that by the end of my pregnancy, the baby would be larger, moving and kicking to cause discomfort. Even though my appetite was normal, my weight gain was minimal. By the end of the mid-trimester my stomach was well-rounded and predominant. leaving little doubt as to my condition. This, along with a resonating heartbeat and an ultrasound, assured me that my little one would arrive as expected in about five months’ time.
My last trimester was filled with an increasing, twenty-pound weight gain and an ever growing midriff (a polite way of describing a protruding baby). How in the world did something that started off so tiny and unrecognizable become so large and ever present? Despite being uncomfortable, excitement began to fill my days. I eagerly chose my nursery pattern: Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit and other drawings. What fun I had buying precious little Royal Dalton figurines and a wallpaper border that represented Peter Rabbit and his array of friends. It was as though I was recreating my own childhood as the Tale of Peter Rabbit had been one of my favorite books. I also completed the Lemans classes, while wondering if anything could actually prepare me for expelling the rotund baby from my 5 foot, 2 inches and 125 pound body. Regardless, it would eventually happen and I was sure I would never be the same. By my final month, my body began to retain fluid and my ankles became abnormally swollen. Still, I managed to trudge on and work each day, awaiting the final phase of my child’s delivery.
It was nearing Christmas and I was due just prior to the end of the calendar year. I lived in a Southern city that did not usually get much snow, but that year (1989), the Holy City was blanketed with ten inches – our first white Christmas in decades. My anxious little one decided to make her grand entry two days following the holiday. The night before I went into labor, I watched old Christmas movies: “Christmas in Connecticut” and “The Bells of Saint Mary’s”. Those movies will forever be a vivid reminder of the momentous occasion that would soon follow. Interestingly enough, as my child has grown, these two films have become two of her favorite holiday movies.
Pregnancy and childbirth are amazing, and it’s true that both will give birth to a new, undying respect for motherhood. As you watch your little one grow, a newfound understanding for what your own parent endured takes root. You are countlessly reminded of those things you did to challenge your own mother's sanity and well-being, of times you saw an unexpected smile or look of pride grace your parent’s face, or those unfortunate choices you made that created tears, frustration, or fear in the person who brought you into this world. You pray you won’t make the same mistakes your own parents made, but in retrospect, you simply do the best you can – and always strive for even better when it comes to your children.
No one ever promised that giving birth or being a parent would be easy, and it certainly isn't. Despite the fact my children are now in their thirties, it remains difficult at times. Issues and battles simply change direction, taking on a different name or new life. Then again, nothing worth having ever came easy, and to use an old quote (and lyric), "no one ever promised us a rose garden" in this life. Still, through thick and thin, thorns and roses, tears and happiness, I’d do it all over again. There is absolutely, profoundly, and adamantly nothing that compares -at least, not in my lifetime.