Posted by Duff

Baby With Roses.

Flowers Clipart by Mothers Day Central

Last year at this time, several people asked me what I’d be doing for Mother’s Day.

“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “Except for going into labor.” The second part was a joke.

I spent a morning alone with The Dervish, and though I awoke with a strange feeling that I can only describe as a rain cloud about to burst, I followed her around outside the best anyone can follow a two and half year old at 38 weeks and 6 days pregnant.

She disappeared into the far corner of the garage, where the tricycle that she, to this day, has not ridden, was kept.  When she returned, she said, “I’m going to have a baby brother tomorrow.”

Which was interesting, because she never wanted to talk about the baby, and we didn’t know he was a boy.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Let’s go have lunch.”

Thank you, once again, AVM, for the tuna.

After, a trip to a department store to buy a new saute pan. Mostly to get out of the house. As we drove, the leaves on the trees were too green, the azaleas fluorescent, and I closed my eyes.

“Husband,” I said, “I would just like it stated for the record that I will be shocked if I don’t have this baby in the next twenty-four hours.”

He may have grunted.

At the store, The Dervish darted. The full length of the store. Terrified that she would be abducted (rational or not), I sprinted after her.  I used to be a good sprinter, and applied everything from that lifetime and nothing from pregnancy to catching her and carrying her, a screaming surfboard, under one arm from the store to the car. I refused to let on how winded I was, how much it hurt.  While her father buckled her into her carseat, I wilted.

And said, “I will be having this baby in the next twenty-four hours.”

It was that night before bed that I ate a bowl of cereal with strawberries with my head in a cloud of preoccupation that led to insomnia, and finally to an overwhelming urge to getmyselftothebathroombeforeIruinedthesheets.

Apparently, no one pees for ten minutes.  So I straightened my hair, finished packing my bag, and pretended to watch TV, before the feeling returned, times five. At least I made it off the couch and past the area rug.

So I did some laundry and took a shower.  And went to look in The Dervish in her piggy pajamas, curled fetally around a fleece blanket. And I would have cried–there are few moments as raw and precious as the last moment alone with your first baby–but my uterus reminded me, without question, that this was the first of many times I’d need to prioritize two sets of needs.

The thought of her waking up, not expecting her grandparents in our place, would blindside me as I lay flat, amid of flurry of emergency medical proceedings that seemed to have nothing to do with me. What is she doing right now? Does she know how much we love her?

Atticus: I miss those contractions. They meant I would be meeting you shortly, and I would relive every second of  those hours if such reunions were possible.  But on the 11th, you can dive bomb on my scar, lost in giggles, and I will squeeze you to let know how much you are loved before you break away, in search of your sister.

Happy Mother’s Day to our readers!