Thirty-nine years ago today (March 29) , I gave birth to my first baby boy. It was a beautiful experience – well mostly.
I had a nasty condition known as toxemia and my legs were swollen to the size of beer kegs; my rings had to be cut off my fingers. My eyes were swollen shut and Daddy (my OB-GYN) had to induce labor six weeks early. He didn’t think either of us would survive. I watched his hair turn grey as he struggled to deliver his grandson.
After 17 hours of labor and thanks to a very determined nurse whose name was Skinner, Braddock Jones was finally coaxed into the world.
In those days, we didn’t have a clue which sex we would be having.
Skinner yelled – “We have a little red-headed boy!” I racked my brain trying to figure out where the red hair came from. Weighing in at a mere 5-1/2 pounds, he had the lungs of a swimmer. Suddenly, the world shifted for me and I knew that I was born to be a mother – not a perfect one, mind you, but the best I could be.
I’ll never forget the aftermath. Mother and son made it just fine until the father waltzed into the hospital room and whined, “My feet are killing me.”
Say what? HIS FEET WERE KILLING HIM! I remember thinking I could endure a stint at Parchman Penitentiary to show him what would really kill him.
I don’t think our marriage ever recovered fully after that gaff, though we stayed together 28 more years and had another son. Funny, I really don’t remember the hard times, I just remember the births of my two boys – the best two days of my life.