Flash forward to 1991. We're on a long-distance drive to somewhere, when I tell him, "I've changed my mind. I want to have a child."
He was furious. I don't blame him. Asking him to shift gears after several years during which time he had gotten used to the idea that life was just the two of us. Not three. Not four. It took him awhile to adjust to the notion. Then we talked practicalities.
At that time, we were living in the house of his birth with his mother. We'd moved back from Virginia to take care of her after my father-in-law passed away. The house was very small, and even though his parents had raised five children there, when you factored in three adults, not two, it was not big enough for us. So, while he agreed that we would have a child, I agreed it would have to wait a little while.
The next year we bought a home and began trying. It didn't take very long. By Christmas, I was pregnant, and our son was born the following September, on the day of my baby shower at work. Two of my coworkers brought a photo of the cake. It was lovely.
As I had predicted, the baby was a boy, his head was too large, and the doctor had to go in and get him. During the procedure, I was very nervous, and the doctor asked my husband to calm me down. He had just been watching Jeopardy, so he asked a Jeopardy question -- What was Wilma Flintstone's maiden name? The doctor and nurses debated among themselves, and it was all very jolly -- for them. I was shivering and anxious. In short order, my son made his entrance, I cooed a bit, then asked them to please put Humpty back together again. (Kudos to my husband, who is icked out pretty easily, but who was able to keep his composure in spite of viewing all of my innards lying about.)
Having a c-section meant I could stay in the hospital a couple of extra days. I was thrilled. The hospital had new birthing suites, and there was only one other mother there. So the nurses were all over me and my son. Going home was culture shock. The first week was a blur. The odd thing was walking into the house, and nothing feeling the same. Everything in our lives changed. It was a wonderful, challenging time. I had six weeks before I had to go back to work. My husband had agreed to stay home and raise our son.
Looking back, there were times when I wish I could have been the one. I remember talking to them on the phone after they'd taken a walk in the park together or gone to the library or visited my mom and dad. And I would get teary and sad. Then there were days when two of them would come visit me for lunch. They'd bring sandwiches, and we'd sit in the park. Or we'd go to Wendy's and eat. Sometimes they would stop at the florist's and present me with a rose. Good times.
It was the right thing for my husband to be the stay-at-home dad. He took a lot of crap for it, but seeing how well my son has turned out is his vindication. Perhaps for him, the second-most important validation came from his mother, who said, "Don't pay attention to what anyone tells you. You are doing the right thing."
My time with our son was limited, but I made the most of it. Evenings were my time. We would eat dinner, I'd play with my son, give him a bath, read him a story, sing to him, put him to bed. Weekends were family time.
Then came pre-school. I didn't sign him up soon enough, so he went on a waiting list. One month into the school year, he got in because another kid was a biter and lost his spot. We have a photo of my son on his first day, so brave, smiling from ear to ear.
The school years whizzed by. Grammar then high school, now college. He's a young man with a life of his own. Our son has turned into a fine human being, and we are proud of him. Together, the three of have laughed, fought, and loved each other. I like to remember the laughing most, it's the best part.
We are proud of our son. Our wish for him is a wonderful life. One that is long, happy, healthy and full of laughter. Mazel tov, my son.
P.S. Wilma's maiden name was "Slaghoople."
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