“I can’t be pregnant, I’m too old for that,” I said to your dad, as I contemplated all the ramifications of a pregnancy at 42, career established and mother of two already, and recently remarried after a heart-breaking divorce.
I read and reread “how to” books on pregnancy and childbirth, determined to have another quick and natural birth. Your sister Sarah had been so easy, a short 4-hour labor and then three strong pushes to see the face of another perfect baby girl. Dad and I went to classes to prepare for your birth, since this was his first child, and I wanted him to be with me throughout my labor with you, to recall every precious moment, start to finish. We took your sisters to the “greet your new sibling” class, so they could learn how a new baby, YOU, would change their lives forever. And instruction on how to hold you, change you and feed you.
On our trip to Disneyland, just 3 months pregnant, we bought you a fuzzy, blue, Winnie-the-Pooh hat, and imagined how old you would have to be before you wore it. We placed it in your dresser when we got home, anxiously waiting with the other treasures that we collected for your arrival.
At one of my prenatal visits, Dr. Burdick drew your outline on my swollen stomach. We all laughed as I shared the drawing with your sisters and Dad, each of them tracing your margins with their fingers on my belly full of you.
You had a mind of your own even then before you presented yourself to the world. Two weeks prior to your birthday, you wiggled and squirmed your way inside my womb and were now face up, not head down, necessitating a cesarian section. “Damn you,” all my plans dashed. However, the moment that you cried aloud, gasping for air, and then nursing at my breast, all was forgiven. I had another perfect baby, this time a son.
I marveled at your perfection and wondered how I would raise a son, never having brothers nor a decent male in my family from which to draw inspiration. I would raise you to be kind, gentle and loving, just like your sisters. And that is exactly who you are today!
For a few months, we moved your cradle and changing table to right outside our bedroom, so I could hear you the moment you were hungry. I wasn’t a fan of the “family bed,” and it took no persuading Dad to keep you in your cradle, but very nearby. I would often fall asleep while you nursed, waking only with your sweet baby grunts and coos.
After your first birthday, I was chasing after you, but NO, I could not. How strange this desire to run yet my legs do not cooperate. I can put one foot in front of the other, but it is not running, it is more like a drunken stumble, clumsy like a puppy that’s all feet and legs.
You know the story ending, me being diagnosed with Primary Lateral Sclerosis, a rare motor neuron disease.
I eventually stop working because my voice is unintelligible, and I progress from needing a cane to walk, to a rollator. But here’s the silver lining, I spend nearly EVERY DAY with you from that first birthday until you go off to college. I’m able to volunteer in your classes at school, something that I rarely did with your sisters. I’m involved in your school’s PTA, eventually becoming treasurer for two consecutive terms. We read together every night before bed, gradually acquiring a library of books on tape as my voice continued to deteriorate.
I’m the mother I had dreamed of being to your sisters, until working full time got in the way. I’m a stay-at-home Mom and I’m loving it. We drive to baseball practice, soccer practice, basketball practice and saxophone lessons. We talk about everything, or so I think.
One day, while rummaging through old video tapes, we discover one from Halloween, before you, before PLS. Upon playing it, you remark, “Mom, that’s you talking! I didn’t know you could talk.” You understand me the best, to this day, because you have only known me with this distorted voice. That is our special bond.