37

My birthday was on Sunday. I got up and ate cold gluten-free pizza and chocolate ice cream for breakfast, because I could. We went to church and I had a surreal, heart-blowing experience that may have shoved me firmly onto the Converting-to-Orthodoxy path, but that's a story for another time.

We came home from church, and as I changed my clothes in the bathroom and surveyed the swelling orb of my body, I got all choked up thinking about my mom becoming a mom for the first time 37 years ago that day. I was a planned c-section, thanks to my being breech and never really dropping much into her pelvis. She would tell you that they had to fish me out of her rib cage, and that's why her scar started about 5 inches above her bellybutton and went all the way down to her pubic bone. They used to slice you open long-wise. Thank God for bikini cuts, amiright?

I don't have many pictures of my mom pregnant with me, or any photos of us together in the hospital. Maybe that was considered more gauche in those days, before selfiesticks and professional hospital photography. I know I was pumpkin colored from jaundice, and I had to wear a plastic brace snapped over my diaper to keep my femurs in my hip sockets. Apparently I was born with both legs dislocated, and had to be braced for several months after birth to keep them in place. And I know that for some reason, she couldn't breastfeed me and I ended up on formula pretty much from the get-go. Oh, and I was bald until after my 2nd birthday, and people frequently asked her if I was a boy.

That's pretty much the sum total of what I know about my mom's pregnancy with me, delivery, and immediate post-partum. I don't know if she had morning sickness, or how much weight she gained, or if she had any pregnancy issues. I don't know when they decided that I had to be c-section. I don't know how long she stayed in the hospital, or if she had post-partum depression. I don't know why I couldn't be breastfed, or whether that bothered her.

My mom gave birth to me just a few weeks before her 28th birthday. She and my dad had been married for 7 years by then, so family and friends assumed they were infertile. Mom said that someone even anonymously mailed them brochures about adoption. In fact, they just chose to "be married" for a while before starting a family. My dad's illness had a life expectancy of about 40-45 at that time, so they knew they wouldn't grow old together. They traveled, served, stayed busy with their friends and the church, and saved up money and built a house.

I didn't follow the same path. I got married at 32 rather than 21. I traveled and served and stayed busy with my friends before I was married, and then some more after. And I'll be 37 rather than 27 when I have this baby girl. I wish I could have had my mom here for this pregnancy, baby prep, delivery, and new baby season. I have so many questions for her. So many things I want to tell her. And dad, too. We don't have a lot of common ground with Les's parents about pregnancy, delivery, infant care, family philosophy, natural approaches, breast feeding, child care, you name it. You name it, we try to avoid talking about it. There is no civil discussion. I don't know how this is going to work when the kiddo is actually here, but for now, we're trying to gingerly avoid talking with them about any of our intentions or guiding principles. Everything (no, literally, everything) we desire for this little one and our new family is at odds with Les's mom's opinions and beliefs. It makes me ache for my mom even more.

Here's a little secret goal of mine. We'll see if I can accomplish it within the next 6.5 weeks:

When my mom got sick, she was on a crocheting kick. She had learned a few fancy stitches, and was making all kinds of blankets and scarves and hats. I was 29 at the time, single, and still entrenched in my conviction that I would NEVER HAVE KIDS, even if I got married. But I asked my mom to stitch me a "small, baby or dog-sized blanket" with this primary-colored ombre yarn I had found. She got it started and completed about 4 inches of it before she no longer had the energy to work on it. I don't know the stitch, and I'm not quite sure how to go about finding out how to complete it, but I would REALLY like to finish it. I've added that to my ever-growing Before Baby To-Do list.

37 years, and almost 6 of those already without my mom. I try not to dwell too much on the bleak math of "If I live 22 more years, I will have outlived my mom" or other mental rabbit trails best left untraveled. For now, I've just got to focus on the happy math of 6.5 weeks to go, give or take, before I add "mom" to my own identity.