Thirty-eight years ago, about right now, I decided that after twenty-eight hours of labor at home that I probably needed to go to the hospital. My midwives were exhausted, my husband was exhausted, I was...well. You can imagine.
The trip to the hospital was exactly what I needed because it got me up and moving and by the time we'd checked in, I was pushing whole-heartedly, squatting on the floor while the nurse was laughing at me saying, "You better get up in this bed or you're going to have that baby on the floor!"
And I was quite okay with that.
I would have been completely joyful to have that baby anywhere in this world or any other. It did not matter to me.
But they got me up on the bed and Hank was born and we went home a few hours later and that was how I became a mama.
Long story short, so to say.
And here we are and my baby is definitely grown up and I am still a mama, always will be. These days I mostly mama my grandsons and my chickens and now a cat but my own-I-gave-birth-to-babies are still my babies and although it is completely different to be the mother of a thirty-eight year old than it is to be the mother of a newborn, some things never change and those things are the way I feel about those babies, as tender and protective and possessive and absolutely filled with the wonder of it all, as completely and eternally shocked at how much I love them, as I was when I first cradled them to me.
Just as with birth, it's all a messy, complicated, sometimes painful, often humorous thing, always bigger than I could ever have imagined- this being a mother to adult children. Plus, you can tell each other dirty jokes and drink beer together.
All right. Here's a little video I took this morning of my chicken-babies.
Elvis trying to make babies.
And I guess the bottom line is, that's what it's all about whether we are humans or birds or cats or tomatoes. We are here to make more of ourselves and/or to make the best of ourselves and it would not surprise me to know that even the oak tree, as it releases its acorns, feels a thrill of love and a tingle of pleasure.
Happy Birthday, Hank. Thanks for making me a mother.