Eleven
Eleven years ago I went to the Doctor and then to the radiologist. They measured my baby and estimated the amniotic fluid just as they had the day before. Eleven years ago I was 42 weeks and 4 days into my pregnancy and I was terrified.
I was 28 and married a year and a half. I was pretty sure that I’d know what to do, but fearful that I’d mix it all up. I was fat, tired and broke, but madly in love with my husband and eagerly anticipating my daughter’s birth.
The doctor said, “You’re having a baby tomorrow, go get a manicure.”
I cried a little, mostly because pregnant women have a tendency to cry and went to Woodley Lakes to play 18 holes. In my lifetime I’ve never golfed better than I did during that pregnancy. My shots were long and straight, my putts were solid and I never lifted my head too soon.
I don’t golf much more than once a year now. I thought I’d miss it, but really I miss my kids too much to spend that much time away.
Eleven years ago I cried a lot because the thought of being a mother scared me. Today I’m baking Jane a cake and wrapping her birthday present. Jane made me a mother, she fortified me with knowledge I didn’t know I had. She made me love my husband in a way that I never dreamed was possible. She made me need other people for the first time in my life, and she gave us all strength we didn’t know we had.
Tomorrow I’ll be the mother of an eleven year old girl. Once again I’m grasping at every moment, and awestruck by the beauty of my children. Nothing about motherhood scares me any longer. Having a ten year old daughter was about as perfect as the world could ever be; I imagine eleven will be an awful lot of fun too.