Journal Entry

Memorable mommy moment: Dance with your children

They say you glow when you’re pregnant. There are days you wonder if that’s just a nice way of telling you you’re sweating like a pig and you waddle like a duck. So maybe no one says that, but it sure is how you feel when you’re eight months pregnant in the heat of summer and it’s 103 degrees outside; and, there is no hope for cooler weather until after you have the baby.

I got pregnant with my first baby when I was 23. I never was sick one day of those nine months—never had a complaint. I enjoyed every kick and shove my son gave me. They were love taps as I called them, after losing their butterfly “fluttering” affect, as my doctor described them. They quickly went from flutters to full blown flailing about within the womb. I was sure I was being bruised and beaten from the inside out but it didn’t matter. I was in love with being a new mommy.

I didn’t fret or worry like some mothers-to-be seem to consume their pre-birth months doing. I just enjoyed the time of carrying this wee one while I could, cherishing the moments of having him, literally, all to myself.

But all good things must come to an end and eventually it was time to give him up and begin the journey of raising him to become independent, and give him up again.

My son was overdue—not an uncommon thing. But his heart rate was decreasing and he had stopped moving, so my doctor decided that my son was going to arrive the day I went in for my weekly check, two and a half weeks after this little boy was due to enter the world.

She sent me across the street to the hospital where they confirmed that I needed to be induced to start immediate labor. My husband was called and arrived within the hour to be at my side.

A heart monitor cable was inserted through the womb and into my son’s scalp where to this day he still has a little scar on the top of his head. That is where they monitored his heartbeat moment by moment through my fifteen-hour labor. After pushing for four hours, I gave birth to a beautiful, bruised, egg-shaped-headed little boy. He was beautiful but gone shortly after his arrival, to be monitored to assure his health was stable.

A few hours later, I was reunited with this miracle of life and he was given a very prestigious name, even though misspelled during my post-birthing confusion. Thankfully, my son has never held it against me.

It would be almost four months before I could cough, sneeze, or laugh without wanting to cry from the pain from a horrendous episiotomy. Although I swore I’d never have another child because of it, I got past the pain and delivered a healthy baby girl through a much more pleasant experience, followed by another son four years to the day after his big brother.

I suppose the greatest memory of all was when my pediatrician came in for the final check on my first son before clearing him to leave the hospital. He sat on the edge of the bed and said, “You’re going to get a lot of advice on how to raise this little one. Some will be good but most you’ll have to take politely and then throw it away. The best advice I can give you is to dance with your children.”

I never forgot that—ever. I did dance with my children. When they were infants, I danced with them in my arms. As they grew, we danced in the living room and down the hall. Tonight my daughter was home with us, visiting for the holidays. As I did the dishes I was singing a song. She took my hands and we danced.

Once again. I remembered that moment with my first son in the hospital when the doctor said to dance with your children. He was right. I got a lot of advice. But I do believe his was about the best. I know some of the best memories have been made swaying through the rooms of our home as we laughed and sang…and danced.