I got my kids when I shouldn't have. I was forty-nine when my newborn son was put into my arms, and fifty-two when I first set eyes on my tiny daughter.
There was no pain for me involved in their birth. Because they are adopted.
I couldn't sleep that first night, not one wink, because I was too excited. I'd spent the previous day going over everything out loud, driving my husband crazy.
A mild panic had set in and wouldn't let go.
"Okay - we feed him, change the diaper, burp him, and, uh...what else? Help me here."
He just gave me a look.
"Oh, yeah. He gets a bath. And he sleeps a lot, then we feed him again, burp, change... Okay, I think I've go it. Haven't I? Do we do anything else?"
Why I acted like that, I don't know, because babies weren't unfamiliar to me at all. I'd had younger siblings to take care of, and I babysat the neighborhood - make that half the world - since I was twelve. So I knew babies.
But suddenly, at forty-nine, I was the biggest dope on earth, because a baby was coming.
That first night, I lay awake and watched the tiny body wheeze and snuffle away, trying out its new lungs. I leaped up every two hours to do the routine, wishing he wouldn't panic and scream so much while the bottle was heating.
Everything was going on schedule.
Until the dawn. I was exhausted and nauseated like I've never been before. I couldn't even move.
So the man of the house, the new daddy, took over. All day he took over while I laid in bed, scared, dozing, and fearing I would die before night came.
By 5 o'clock, he looked ragged. By 6 o'clock, I could get out of bed. By 7 o'clock, I ate some toast and held my baby son. By 8 o'clock, I knew I would live to enjoy being a mother.
Sure, forty-nine's too old. And fifty-two's even too older. But I did it and it wasn't so hard after all.
They're teenagers now and they kind of get a kick out of having an ancient mama. When they remember to think of it, that is.
That first night, I lay awake and watched the tiny body wheeze and snuffle away, trying out its new lungs. I leaped up every two hours to do the routine, wishing he wouldn't panic and scream so much while the bottle was heating.
Everything was going on schedule.
Until the dawn. I was exhausted and nauseated like I've never been before. I couldn't even move.
So the man of the house, the new daddy, took over. All day he took over while I laid in bed, scared, dozing, and fearing I would die before night came.
By 5 o'clock, he looked ragged. By 6 o'clock, I could get out of bed. By 7 o'clock, I ate some toast and held my baby son. By 8 o'clock, I knew I would live to enjoy being a mother.
Sure, forty-nine's too old. And fifty-two's even too older. But I did it and it wasn't so hard after all.
They're teenagers now and they kind of get a kick out of having an ancient mama. When they remember to think of it, that is.
No comments:
Post a Comment