It's almost inevitable that when a group of mothers get together, eventually they start swapping birth stories. Here's one of mine. Don't worry, I'm not going to talk about anything like the placenta or cervical dilation.
Sixteen years ago, I presented myself at the triage nurse's desk at the local hospital. It was late at night, and in our "Prepared Childbirth" class we'd been informed that if it was after hours, we should go to the ER and tell the nurse that we needed to go to Labor and Delivery. So I barged ahead of everyone else in line at the ER to inform the annoyed nurse that it felt like I had a twenty pound octopus with a head made out of cement trying to claw its way out of my uterus and I wanted drugs and I wanted them IMMEDIATELY.
She sighed heavily and asked me if this was my first baby. My only baby, I told her, because there was no way on God's green Earth that I was EVER doing this again. You're probably going to be in labor awhile, she said. Get in line. At that moment, a massive contraction hit and I started screaming while holding onto the arm of the unfortunate man behind me. The triage nurse got on the phone and probably said something like "CODE RED! We have a demonically possessed pregnant woman in labor down here who is scaring all the other patients; can you come get her STAT!", and a labor/delivery nurse showed up shortly after to take me off to my epidural.
At least, that's how I remember how it went down. My recollection of that entire night is a little foggy.
That octopus with the cement head, which actually turned out to be an adorable little baby girl, is now sweet sixteen. Because she's a band kid, and it's August, she gets to spend her entire birthday at band camp. Except for a brief time in the afternoon where she will come home, eat lunch and probably take a nap, she will be celebrating her birthday by playing a clarinet in the broiling heat while marching. Because she's a band kid, she seems completely fine with this.
Turning sixteen means admittance into the almost-adult world; you can get a driver's license and a part-time job at the movie theater or the grocery store, and people really start wanting you to make decisions about what you're going to do after high school, but your parents still have to sign your permission forms for band trips and feed you. When I turned sixteen, I was allowed to start dating. The boys weren't exactly lining up at the front door, so I just kept on doing what I had been doing at fifteen, which was reading stacks of science fiction books and rolling my eyes at everything the Grandparents of No said.
As a parent, I find myself looking at the sixteen-year old thinking, "How did that happen?" and "Crap, I only have two more years to finish my mom job (although parents of grown kids tell me that the mom job is never actually done) before I cut her loose and reclaim her bedroom for my personal use." I feel like there is all this advice I haven't passed on yet and all these skills I need to teach and all these experiences I need to provide and I haven't done it yet and the clock is ticking, ticking, ticking!
So here it goes, the mom version of speed dating, which is speed advice giving: Ramen noodles are not a complete meal. Don't put anything red in a white wash. If you don't want to go out with some guy, "no" is a sufficient answer; you don't owe him an explanation. Yes, you have to have car insurance. When you get a job, save your money. Write thank-you notes. Be responsible for your stuff. If you find a bra that fits, buy six of them. Credit cards are not free money. Don't sign anything without reading it first. If you don't understand what it says, ask. If you aren't sure, don't buy it.
Sixteen brings some ambivalent feelings about parenthood. I can't wait for them to grow up so I can move my books and animal skull collection out of the dining room and into a newly spare bedroom. At the same time, I don't want them to grow up and leave- or at least, I want the process to slow down. How is it that I have a teenager old enough to drive and pay FICA taxes, when I just gave birth to her yesterday? I wasn't prepared for that in the Prepared Childbirth class.
Happy sweet sixteen, kid. I am always proud of you.
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