I’ve written three essays on my son’s birthday and I could probably write another two with all the “outtakes.” Is there a limit to how much you can tell your kids how awesome they are? Tiger mom would argue yes. Why am I still writing about my firstborn? “Write what you know,” they say. So I do. I enjoy writing about the men in my life: my son, the 14-year-old genius; my husband, the artist clown, and my father, the immigrant donut shop owner with some imperfections. All of these men have complications … and I love to dissect them all at the keyboard.
It’s all out of love.
I never got around to writing the official story of Jake’s birth. It was one of those items on the “One day, I will…” list. Instead, I have 5 pages of typed-up, bulleted notes shoved into a Winnie-the-Pooh baby book. But the thought of writing the story now, after 14 years, seems daunting. However, within the confines of the 100-word-story game, I thought I’d give it a shot. How much can I say in 100 words?
So far, I’ve written double that, and not said much.
Gripping contractions came gradually, gaining momentum, allowing me to labor 28 hours at home. Blood-tinged underwear signaled movement. Admitted to hospital at hour 30, at only 2cm dilated. I ditched my natural birth plan, with tear-soaked tissues, and yielded obediently to hospital orders: IV, bed-confining monitoring, painful catheter. Hour 38, the doctor broke my water with a plastic stick. Still not dilating. Hour 42: Pitocin. Hour 43, level 10 pain and exhaustion. Doctor urges epidural; I reluctantly agree. Hour 45: I deliver my son and the piece of my heart which will forever dwell outside my body.