She may be 21, but she’s still my baby

Sue Clark

Twenty-one years ago last week, I was wearing the only outfit I could

still get into at nine months pregnant. If you noticed an irritated

35-year-old woman wearing a big maroon sweater over stretchy-front

bell-bottoms, then you saw me. I had taken to stomping clumsily along

Coast Highway and heading up Dover Street in an effort to get my

daughter born. She was 10 days late, and I was counting.

(Interestingly, this would turn out to be a girl who took charge

of her own alarm clock and told me never to wake her up for school. I

would hover anxiously by her door on school mornings, but she got up

every time, darting me an irritated look if she caught me standing

there).

But I digress. After much futile stomping, some equally useless

hopping up and down on the advice of friends, and some grumpy

gardening and lawn mowing, I was convinced I would remain a purple

and navy blimp for all time.

However, the night of Jan. 4, 1983, I had lots of bad dreams, all

of them involving labor. I awoke and still seemed to be involved in

my dreams. I grabbed my husband’s watch and waited. Ouch. Why was my

back cramping up? Eight minutes later: Ouch! Seven minutes later:

OUCH!

I woke up my husband and told him I might be in labor.

“No, you’re not,” he mumbled and went back to sleep.

I woke him up again, seven minutes later, and soon we were off to

the hospital. Although I never really looked that pregnant, being

long and lanky, my slenderness was deceptive. Apparently, I had wide

bones where it counted. I had a four-hour labor, just like an

old-fashioned mountain woman.

I called my daughter at college this Jan. 5 at 12:38 p.m.

“Hi, mom,” she answered before I spoke. “I know, 21 years ago I

was born at 12:38.”

“Happy birthday, honey. And what two things did I ask for right

after you were born?”

“A Coke. Was it diet or regular?”

“Regular; I wanted sugar and I was caffeine-deprived.”

“And, um ... oh, yes, a toothbrush to brush your teeth.”

I was pleased she remembered a little of the family culture.

“And you got stoned on the pain medication?’

I attempted to divert her from this avenue of questioning.

“You know I had a natural childbirth except for a tranquilizer

during the worst part,” I said.

“You mean when you told dad he could take the breathing techniques

and ... “

“Yes, yes. I got a little testy during transition.” (Transition is

the worst part of labor. As the nurses said, I had a lot of

“discomfort.”)

“He told me you almost broke his hand,” she said.

“I might have squeezed it a bit. And, yes; they gave me some

Demerol for pain after labor,” I said. “You know the rest. I tell you

every year. One of the nurses came in and I asked her why she was

floating a foot off the ground.”

“And they changed your meds.”

“That they did.”

She told me about some plans she had for some birthday parties

that week. Just like her dad, she seems to have a birthday week --

not just one day. And I nagged at her to be careful, as always.

“When you were little, I thought when you turned 18, I’d stop

worrying about you.”

“Ha!” she said, and I had to agree.

“But, you know what? In spite of all the worries, you turned out

great.”

“Love you, mom.”

“Happy birthday, Laura. You were worth the wait.”