By Patsy R. Brumfield/NEMS Daily Journal
Twenty-nine years ago today, I embarked on a new adventure. It turned out to be one of my life’s greatest joys.
But I say to myself: “How can that be? I’m only 27!”
It was a Wednesday, I was at home and three days past my due date
I’d just finished watching “Days of Our Lives” and began to run the vacuum in my bedroom.
Whooooosh! I had no idea what it would be like, when your water breaks, so I dashed for the bathroom and jumped into the tub in case it was more like a tidal wave. It wasn’t, but just weird.
I made the appropriate calls, people arrived and sat there for about four hours, watching me breath.
We finally decided to go to the hospital, where ultimately, the anesthesiologist failed to maneuver an epidural. That meant I was going to have to tough it out au naturel.
I’ve since discovered that our Universal Maker has cast a spell over most women who go through this process sans drugs, and mysteriously we forget the pain. Oh, we remember it hurt, but we go amnesiac for the degree – something like having a Mack truck park on your foot for hours.
About 11:15 p.m., I suggested that I’d really prefer to have this baby’s birthday on an even-numbered day, which this was. “So, let’s get going,” the doc said.
Miracle of all miracles, my son was born at 11:58 p.m. We all wept and rejoiced at the blessed event, then they kicked us out of the hospital as fast a possible. In retrospect, I think a week is about right, given the amount of work and the emotional adjustments that await new parents at home.
Nobody can adequately prepare you for how completely this experience changes your life. It has its challenges, but the rewards are immeasurable.
When I look back on these 29 years, they have been filled with familial highs and lows, some even tragic.
But one constant has been the almost entirely joyful experience of being his mother.
Except for that time in high school when he was suspended a day because he became overly energized by a teacher’s teasing that his favorite football team had lost a crucial game. Except for the time the yearbook’s adviser screamed via phone that he had “ruined the annual” by listing his favorite wrestler’s moniker as his own middle name. Or those every days of his senior year that I had to go inside the office and sign him out prematurely, in case his journalism teacher’s temper boiled over and she cast him out of his final class of the day.
Oh, and the time he came home from Middle School honors ultimately to get grounded for throwing water balloons at cars passing by our driveway. And he won’t eat black-eyed peas.
I think that’s it.
So, happy birthday, son. It’s been a great run so far. I hope to see many, many more.
Contact Patsy R. Brumfield at (662) 678-1596 or firstname.lastname@example.org.