As I sit here at my desk procrastinating homework, I find myself looking back on my life and pondering the events that brought me here, in this house, a midwifery student with a husband and three children, a dog and a cat.
Some of those ponderings are easily resolved. I mean, my friend's cat had kittens and so I took it upon myself to be deaf to the protests of my husband and bring the little shiny ball of grey fur home and call him Sprocket. That one is simple.
But how the hell did I actually make it in to midwifery school? OK, story time! I will tell you my story in pieces so that you have time to absorb it all and I have time to actually do some homework.
Did I mention that I'm a high school drop-out? Yes, in 1990 I dropped out of 10th grade so that I could further pursue the art of being in love with a loser. The one great thing that came out of that sequence of events: my 16 year old son, Zack. Zackary James Stilts. Oh what an amazing moment it was the first time I saw him. My body chose not to expell him from within the darkness of my womb and so the doctor decided that Zack would come out via an amazingly small slit at the top of my pubic bone. My sister held my hand and took pictures of the surgery while I laid there, feeling my lower abdomen being pushed and pulled and tugged. The next thing I knew, I heard that newborn squall as the doc said, "Hey little one, you're not supposed to do that yet." The nurses cleaned him up and handed him to my sister who brought him close. I wasn't able to hold him right away because my arms were strapped to the obnoxious boards at my sides. My wonderful sister brought him to me and said, "Aimee, look, it's a boy! You got your Zackary James!" And I replied "Oh, great!" and I turned my head and threw up the medicine that was supposed to keep me from throwing up. You see, I knew the gender of each of my children before they were born through intuition, not ultrasound. My sister wanted me to have a girl (the bitch), and I really knew he was a boy and was happy about that. The next day I inspected him while waves of visitors came in to greet this tiny baby boy that was all mine. I felt his soft head and looked into his eyes; cooed to him; counted his fingers and toes; ran my hands along his tibial tuberosities and his olecranon processes; and tickled his patellas (patellae?). We spent four days together in the recovery room, getting to know each other before we were allowed to go home.
To be continued...
(ooh, isn't this just as good as your favorite television drama?!)