I love to write, actually. I’m pretty sure that reading and writing were my first true loves.
As you might have guessed, I was gleeful to learn about a new book called Writing Motherhood by Lisa Garrigues. I’m hoping to win the book from It’s my life, but if I don’t, I’m going to buy it myself.
Rose featured one of Lisa’s prompts on her blog recently:
First Words and Other Firsts: Open any baby diary and you will find whole pages devoted to firsts: first smile, first words, first friends, first birthday. Why are firsts so significant? Because they represent a beginning. Because they push us beyond what is familiar and comfortable. Because they jolt us out of the numbness or everyday life and bring us back to our primitive selves when we saw a world through a child’s eyes. Keeping in mind that first experiences do not end with babyhood, write about a first: the first day of kindergarten, the first day of college, the first grandchild. Or simply begin with the writing start “the first time” and write down the first thing that comes to mind.
So, what does that make you think of?
Oh, sorry, Dear Reader. That was Teacher Tara giving you wait time to think about your answer.
Mine follows. I can’t wait to read yours.
I hate beginnings. Really, they bother me. I’m not a big fan of change, come to think of it.
I’d much prefer a slightly bad status quo to the unknown future. I can’t help it. It’s been that way my whole life. Give me the comfortable and the familiar, and I’m happy.
It’s so bad that I am always late to something new. I linger too long in the old, and I miss out on the first
ten minutes half hour three days of the new.
Except in one case.
I was a miserable pregnant woman. Ask anyone who came in contact with me during those days. My husband lovingly calls MY pregnancy HIS “ten months of hell” (a little selfish, I think). Even the students in my school will forever remember the science teacher who threw up at 12:50 pm every day for ten months. Let’s just say I wasn’t at my best. I wasn’t even at my average.
I was so over being pregnant by the end of my second trimester that I actually tried to convince my obstetrician to induce labor at 32 weeks. I thought I had a logical and convincing argument.
My doctor thought I didn’t.
I tried again at 34 weeks. Same result. Not to be dissuaded, I tried at 35, 36, 37, and 38 weeks. No luck. There were even tears at 38 weeks. No one cared but me.
Don’t give me that look, Dear Reader. I’m tenacious and selfish, and I knew that my baby was viable.
Finally, at 39 weeks, my doctor agreed to induce labor. 10 days later.
I seldom swear, Dear Reader, but I’m pretty sure I did that day. I was happy that there was an end in sight, but I did not want to wait another week and a half for it.
Imagine my jubilation when my eyes jolted open at 3:39 am that same night. I WAS HAVING MY FIRST CONTRACTION!
I was lying in the dark, but I’m pretty sure the sky opened up and God’s light shown down on my face. My first contraction!
My first euphoric, exhilarating, ecstatic contraction! I was so excited that I couldn’t shut my eyes again. I wanted to jump up and down on the bed and scream in delight.
I didn’t, but I wanted to.
I was in labor! I just knew it. Sure enough, I had a second contraction, and then a third, and they came exactly every six minutes after that. Soon after, they were coming every four minutes and then every three minutes. And then I wasn’t pregnant any more.
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