One day you're pushing and then .... poof, they're gone!

I can’t believe that my first born boy turns 40 today.  That’s right, 40 years ago I was in a delivery room during an Iowa snowstorm, laboring for 48 hours. 

Oh, yes, you heard that right.  LABORING!  48 HOURS!  Two DAYS!

I KNOW!  Who labors that long these days?  Moms would be lawyering up.  Dads would be suing for income losses. 

Prehistoric as it seems, it was not unusual in small Iowa hospital communities.  It was a time before birthing classes, epidurals, and fetal monitors became the norm.  It was a time that babies were swaddled so tight to be only briefly held before returning to the nursery.  It was a time husbands sat in waiting rooms, waiting.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had already had one day of beastly contractions and by the time I was heading into day two, I was being told to push.  PUSH?  PUSH WHAT?    (Remember, this was before birthing classes and Google.)

In my haze, I remember my doc telling my husband-at-the-time during my second day of NEVERENDING PAIN that “she thinks that baby is just gonna pop out by itself.” 

If only I could have gotten out of that bed, I would have POPPED his head RIGHT OFF.

Perhaps, doc ...  if you would have taken better stock of how BIG my baby was, and that it was my FIRST and that maybe being JUST 18, that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, those combinations just might make my delivery a tad DIFFICULT!  

I had no clue how long this was going to go on.  Maybe days.  Years.  FOREVER!

This baby seemed to want to take his time coming into the world.  And why not?  He was going to be stuck through eternity with this country farm girl from the sticks ......  “no, no, no, not THAT woman.  Someone has made a mistake!  I want a different M-O-T-H-E-R!“ 

And then ... time to push.  I had no idea.  NO IDEA.  But my body did.  WE'RE THERE.

Once wheeled to the delivery room (WHAT in-room delivery?), and with the doc at the finish line, I hear the gush of water hitting the floor.

Doc: “I just broke your water. It shouldn’t be long now.”

And it wasn’t.  The urge to push was so beyond my control.  As if a Sigourney Weaver's alien had taken over my body and then .... a relief, a calm.  The head is out, the head is out!

Doc: “Stop pushing.”

HUH? HUHHHHH? WHAT?

Um, no. NO NO NO.

Doc: “You need to stop pushing for a moment.  The cord is around his neck three times. It will just take a second.”

THREE TIMES! My brain can’t focus.

I close my eyes, and freeze.  Be still, be perfectly STILL.

And then.

Doc: “Ok, one more push and we’re there.”

And we were.  INCREDIBLE.  All the pain and weight lifted away.

Doc:  “Whoa ... this is a big guy!”

Nurse:  “He must be 10 pounds.”

Doc:  “Betcha he’s easily 11.”

Nurse:  “I’ll take that bet.”

HEY! HEY!  HEEEYYYYY!  Quit all the jabber and bring me that baby!

He weighed 11 lbs and 3 oz., head temporarily bruised and misshapened, but totally healthy and strong from his arduous journey into the world.

Everyone in the hospital was talking about him.  He was almost twice the size of many of the other babies.  And I fell in love with him immediately.

With his thick red hair, Opey freckles and mercurial moods, he was his own man from the start.  Independent, reliable, disciplined and athletic, never one to fail at anything he set out to achieve. 

So now, 40 years later, through many hills and valleys of differences and expectations of each other, he is still as INCREDIBLE as he was from the first moment he arrived.

Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young man going out of my door.

I want to take back those 40 years and do them all over again.  With only one exception.  To do them BETTER, MUCH MUCH BETTER this time around with the clock moving slowly so I can watch frame by frame all the moments of his life.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SON!

missing the mom gene

R.I.P. Frankie Frog

My watch is over.

Bye Frankie.

Hope you're swimming out there in the big waters! 

Death Watch

I have been assigned to be on a death watch today. 

Frankie Frog, my daughter’s 4 year old froggy, was found floating upside down this morning in his tank that he shares with a couple of other fish.

I’m not quite sure what I should do to comfort Frankie.  As  you can see from the photo, we set him up in a smaller container and placed him under my desk lamp hoping to keep him warm.  I tilt the water off of him occasionally thinking he needs some oxygen.  That part, I’m unsure about, since he is under water most of the time and rarely comes to surface to breathe.

Earlier, before my daughter left for work, (I know, she’s 23 and still living at home and that’s a story for another time.) she googled to find out what may be wrong with him and what to do.  The suspect may be the other young froggy she brought home several weeks ago in hopes of giving him a buddy.  But it seems that froggies carry lots of disease and perhaps the new froggy, himself, was diseased, because he turned up dead last night. 

So, Frankie Frog’s outcome is looking very bleak.

I sit here watching him ... occasionally there is a solitary kick.  What is he trying to tell me.  Does he need more oxygen?  Need more heat or is there too much heat.  Does he want to be out of the water, in the water, WHAT!!!!?

Argggghhhhhh!

Frankie Frog came to reside in our home shortly after we moved.  Our daughter decided to start a fish tank and then went off to college.  And you know who was left responsible for taking care of the little critters. 

So I set up my reminders to feed Frankie his bloodworms every two days.  And worried over him.  I was always relieved when the daughter came home over breaks to check him out, make sure I was being a good caretaker.  Oh, ye have so little faith in me!

Frankie has had his share of trauma though and each time he survived triumphantly.

He has endured attacks by other fish, crippling his left arm.

He lost of one of his foot flippers when my daughter accidentally pinched it off while trying to catch him when cleaning the tank.

And early on he became emaciated before we figured out that he was starving because he didn’t seem to be able to find his food.  We figured he must be blind.

But he kept kicking, swimming, hiding in his little castle.

Until this morning.

I do not like this assignment I have been given.

missing the mom gene

Good Enough?

Over a month ago, I started this blog with the intent to push myself.

To write daily.

To find my “voice.” 

Because for the last several years, I have been working on some short stories, life essays, a book. 

Sound familiar? 

I have lots of story inventory, some finished.  A few have been submitted, and naturally, rejected.  But many stories unfinished, unpolished, slumbering in the dark recesses of my MacBook, waiting to be brought back to life. 

I have read some remarkable writings on some remarkable blogs that are full of creative content that I can only hope someday to attain in my own writings.

As I continue to develop my own voice, I am unsure yet what it is I am wanting to call out to the world.

I proceed tenuously ...

cautiously

afraid that I might not be good enough

or funny enough

or insightful enough

or even ...

enough.


But always,
missing the mom gene

Where everybody knows your name

The 401 Diner, our favorite breakfast spot, closed its doors yesterday for the last time after being a fixture in our local neighborhood for the past 10 years.

It’s not like you could argue that it was the best breakfast place around.

But it was OUR place and it’s sad just the same.

With its old style ice cream bar counter with the swivel stools, usually with one that displayed a sign “Broken”.

With its homey blue leather booths and tables that occasionally were propped stable by customers with multiple folded paper napkins.

And a jukebox that would magically begin playing pop tunes from the 60’s including the Temptations, The Shondells, Sinatra and a little mix of Jimmy Buffett.  It was always a mystery as to when it would start up, but we would find ourselves inconspicuously lip syncing to the tunes.

The Professor and I were regulars every Saturday and Sunday mornings for the past five years.  No sooner would we seat ourselves at our regular table in the back, that Gina would greet us with our coffee and ask “The usual?”  I suppose if you’re Jerry Seinfeld, that must happen to you all the time.  But for us, this was OUR Cheers.  The place “where everybody knows your name.” 

The “usual” consisted of the same thing.  Me, always the Blueberry Pancake short stack.  The Professor ... Eggs Benedict WITHOUT the sauce. (I KNOW!  But he does try to watch his girlish figure which is unlike my ballooning menopausal waistline.)  We would leisurely read our Philly and NY Times newspapers long after our breakfast was over, only conscious to the crowd should our table be needed.  We had many long conversations over writing, politics, football, movies, books, actors, friends, possible new business ideas drawn on napkins.  It was a time to connect, to be present with each other before the day’s distractions were upon us.

I mourn the closing of the 401 Diner.  Not only for the friends who have lost their jobs, but also the ending of a special time for The Professor and myself. 

It is a reminder to me how we too often take for granted those around us.  How we expect they will be here today and the day after that, without much thought that they could suddenly be gone.

Time marching on.

I think I’ll give The Professor an extra hug this morning and tell him how much I appreciate him.

I hope not too far into the future we can find another “401 Diner” ... where everybody knows our name and asks “The usual?”

So long Evan, Chris, Gina, Julie, Sheila and Cathy,
Goodbye 401 Diner,

we will miss you,

missing the mom gene