My mom was due with me on May 25th.  Her water broke on March 19th.  The doctor told her to go home and get off her feet until she felt labor pains.  So, she was sick of being pregnant and my dad took her to the hospital.  She was faking pain.  In those days so many women were having post war babies she was in a ward filled with women in labor. Yelling at the top of their lungs, the women were whisked into delivery rooms.  My mom was checked and they sent my dad home.  “She is not in labor and will go home tomorrow.”

My dad went home relieved.  She was not due.  They were going to get health insurance by her due date.  But, my mother climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom.  She waddled out of there and nurses on duty were alarmed.  She had felt my head.  She yelled in earnest.  The nurses whisked her to delivery and she was sedated.  I was born and weighed 3 lbs.

My dad was called and he rushed to the hospital.  He saw me in the neonatal intensive care unit.  He said that I was purple.  The doctors told him I had a fifty-fifty chance of survival at that size.  My mom was wheeled down to see me through glass in my incubator four days later.

They were sent home to wait.  They visited me, she said, every day.  I took to the formula they fed me ounce by ounce.  I gained weight and weeks later reached 5 lbs.  They brought me home and nothing was ready for my arrival.  Steam rolled from the windows as she sterilized bottles and everything else she could find.  The bill, at that time, was three thousand dollars at the hospital.  My dad panicked.  Money was scarce.

My dad could hold all of me in one hand.  I survived!  They were given used baby gear.  I have no infant photos of me.   My grandmother named me Rose of Sharon.  She was, of course, from Ireland.  I grew and grew eventually until the family doctor told my mom:  “You can start her on juice.”

She picked out apricot juice.  I liked it, but my digestive system rejected it and I dropped the weight I had gained.  I was put in a pediatric unit and was bald as a billiard.  The nurses treated me like I was a doll. They taped bows on top of my head and took turns carrying me around. I was lucky and once again went home.  My eyes were not affected.  It was the year after Stevie Wonder, who is blind, was born.  The preemies had full oxygen support back then, and when I was born they brought them out of the incubators to breathe room air and cut down the flow of oxygen so to avoid harming the eyes.

Flash forward years and I was pregnant with our first son.  My doctor laughed at me when I told him that I knew I was due at eight months. He put me on bed rest and I gained seventy pounds.  I had contractions all of the time, and they were false alarms.  Hormones made me crazy. I woke my husband once more at three a.m. and he reluctantly got out of bed.  My dad, who had tripped in the garage, had fallen and broken three ribs.  He came into the bedroom as I cried and cried, and bless his heart, he helped me into clothes.  They stayed home, because we had adopted our first daughter who was four.

They waited by the phone for “the call.”

I was dilated to 1 centimeter.  My doctor came in and broke my water and said that I was, by hook or crook, going to finally deliver a baby.  I had not taken the natural childbirth classes.  He sent in a nurse to coach my breathing.  I hyperventilated.  I was as big as a whale.  The doctor started me on a pit drip to start the labor speed.  It started the labor pain very well, but after a whole day and a half of effort and some yelling my doctor came in with a toothpick in his mouth.  He checked me and told me I was not quite dilated enough.  I told him that I was sick of natural childbirth and I wanted the baby OUT.

“Well, we could do a c-section.”  I did not care if he told me to send the Angel Gabriel to assist.  Two teens came in and shaved my stomach.  My hair was a ratted mess. A blessed anesthesiologist came and gave me a spinal injection.  I felt nothing below the waist and it was wonderful.  I was wheeled into surgery and they had a hell of a time moving me onto the too small delivery table.  My body felt the urge to push.  My doctor halted everything and wanted to check me again.  I pushed again and I grabbed him by the neck.  “OUT NOW!”

My husband was allowed in, and I had the section.  I felt some weight being lifted out of me.  It was my son, who weighed in at nine lbs. and ten oz.  I was thrilled to see him.  My doctor gave my husband a tour of my innards. He set my uterus straight, as it was tipped and straightened out my “tubes.”  Then the team closed me up and the warm bundle of very healthy and overdue baby was at my side.  My parents arrived with our daughter.  My son was long and over three times my size at birth.  He was born on 9/10, weighed 9/10, and missed being delivered by half an hour at 9:10 p.m..  He was breech at delivery.

My parents held him like he was glass.  I was happy as a lark.  The only thing, I asked my doctor if he checked to see if there wasn’t another baby in there.  He laughed at me.  “I told you that you gained too much weight, despite his size.  You are going to have a hell of a time losing your tummy.”  We knew each other well through infertility treatments.  “I have a stiff neck, thanks to you.”  I was in a room with a woman who was going home.  She put her jeans on and screamed, “They fit!”

I went home in my maternity outfit the size of a circus tent.  But, I had the baby boy.  I nursed him, but he wanted a hamburger.  My mom boiled bottles, caps, and nipples and we carefully filled them with formula.  He was a happy baby.  On his third day home he started to cry. He cried in the swing, he cried when I walked him around, he cried all of the time after being so happy.

My dad stood in the kitchen.  His ribs were taped. He casually picked up the can of formula and said, “It says here that you are supposed to add water.”

“Jesus!” I said.  “I’ve ruined him!”  I buried my face in my hands and cried.  I had a baby girl before him and fed her the same formula with no problem.  But, I added water to the cans of formula then.

However, we put water in the formula and after a day and a few poops he was happy again.  People came to see him and they all said, “He’s big!”  So was I.

This boy is now a married man and he is going to send me a Mother’s Day card by December.  He will call or text and say “I mailed you a card, do you mean you didn’t get it?”  It is the same every damn year, but I don’t mind.  He and his wife may have a baby while I am still alive and I hope it is as big as he was.  He might remember to send me a card on time after that.

We ended up with four kids, and none weighed even eight pounds. Each, a joy!