Jennifer told me the baby
moved today. I’m pathetically grateful, overreacting to an event that seems
normal, even uneventful, to most people. But for us, given my daughter’s
precarious health, every movement, every heartbeat, every new millimeter of
growth is nothing short of a miracle.
I was 21 years old when
Jennifer was born, young for motherhood. I remember announcing the news to
my own mother. She was only 42 and, in retrospect,
unprepared. Her words, “So soon? Haven’t you heard of birth control?” are
forever stamped into my memory bank. To be fair, she turned out to be a devoted
grandmother.
Both my pregnancies were
uneventful, the deliveries much easier and faster than expected. There were no
ultrasounds or genetic tests in 1973. No one even cautioned me about alcohol.
My children were delivered by a family doctor, not a gynecologist and the sex of each was a surprise, discovered after delivery.
Jennifer is 38, not 21. It is
2013, not 1973, and I am, clearly, not my 42-year old mother. Unexpected,
embarrassing tears threatened when I heard my grandson’s heartbeat for the
first time. I couldn’t speak when the gynecologist asked if I’d ever imagined
this day.
The unbelievably long first
trimester is over, yet I still agonize before each prenatal visit, hold my
breath and pray that all is well when the phone rings late at night and I
see Jennifer’s number on my caller ID. Just in case, I make ridiculous bargains
with God; please keep Jennifer and her baby healthy and I’ll never ask for
anything again, is one of the more common ones.
Four months have passed. Five
more to go. Thankfully, the sensitive first trimester is over and I’m beginning to
relax…if only just a little.
