Seven years ago, I was SURE I was in labor. My contractions were strong, if not regular. (They never were regular. I suppose that was my first clue that Johanna was going to be her own special little awesome person.) So Eric called his brother and sister-in-law to pick up Abby. She got to spend the afternoon and evening playing with cousins Cody and Kam.
It was a Sunday. I had slight trepidation about having a baby on Dec. 12--this is the day my Grandpa M. passed away and I knew that would make Gram M. both happy and sad.
Eric and I loaded up in the car around 1:30 p.m. or so--we had a navy Honda in those days--and went to the hospital. We were admitted. I changed into one of those crappy hospital gowns. Then the attending nurse came in, said I was only 1 3/4 centimeters and was NOT in active labor.
She was a total pill. And yes, I am still bitter.
So I got dressed again, and we loaded back up into the car, and we came home around 3:30, I think, and I took a nap on the couch with the Christmas tree lights on for ambiance, and then when I woke up Eric heated up some leftover fajitas or something (I can't remember what we had, exactly, except that it was a Mexican dish) and I just felt depressed and huge and despondent.
And eventually Abby came home. She was bummed that her sister hadn't been born after all. Every night for the past two weeks, she'd gone to bed by saying, "Good-night, Mama. I hope your water breaks tonight." And that night was no different.
Today I dropped Johanna off at school and wished her a very happy last day of being six. She was cheerful and looking forward to another day of school. She was dressed in a new pair of leggings we'd picked up yesterday, and was hoping she'd have art class today because the diamond pattern is apparently like a pattern they're making in art.
It's only 10:26 a.m., and already it's a better day than that Dec. 12 of seven years ago.
Martina McBride, "What Child Is This?" This one is for Eric, and for Johanna. Because I'm a giver.
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