The second birth...

"Be thankful how beautifully God has given you another chance in your life, not because you need it but because someone needs you."  ~ unknown

In August of 1972, I realized I was pregnant. Although this pregnancy was not planned, it was welcomed by me. I was not afraid to tell my boyfriend, I was not afraid to tell my parents, I was not afraid to tell the world. There was nothing that was going to stop me from having and KEEPING this child.

On October 16, 1972 I was getting married. My boyfriend said he loved me...I said I loved him too. There were those who thought we did not know each other very well, we had only been a couple for six months after all. But, I was sure this was what I was suppose to be doing, nothing was going to stop this from happening. I wonder now if anyone could of talked me out of this, but I realize that nothing was going to stop me from having this baby. And being married would make it alright, everything was going to be perfect this time. Though I would never admit to it then, there was a part of me that knew that this was not the right thing to do. I knew all the right reasons for getting married...you love and are loved...you make each other happy...you respect each other and have each others best interests at heart. But, there were also the wrong reasons...do you want the same things out of life...do you value the same things...do you want to raise children the same way. The wrong reasons often are deep within and a repetition of your past. My wrong reasons were very deep, but the surface one was that I was going to have a baby, and this was the right and only thing to do. On my wedding day as my Dad was getting ready to drive me to the church he said, "you don't have to do this you know". My reply was that everyone was waiting for us to get there. The word love never came into play.

The wedding gave me a sense of being. A sense that I was an adult making my own decisions. That I would finally have the "happily ever after" ending this time. That the journey would be wonderful and life would be good because we had this union and we were going to have a baby.

I so loved being pregnant. I was good at it. My husband's uncle was an OBGYN and for a wedding present you were given your first child FREE! I loved going to that office, being with all the other women in our various stages of pregnancy. Everyone comparing notes about how they felt...what stage they were in...there was the excitement of birth in that office. How totally different from my first pregnancy this was...this time I had a ring on my finger that made everything alright. I remember the first time I went to the office I had health history papers to fill out. One of the questions was how many full term births I had to date. Do I truthfully answer that question? These were good Catholic men, but they were also Doctors and would know that I had already given birth. I put down the number one in the appropriate spot. When his uncle asked about the birth, I had to say, it was a normal delivery...no complications...ending in adoption. Nothing more was said after that. It was a good pregnancy...a happy pregnancy...I finally felt as if I was good at something...that I had been given a second chance to show what a good mother I was going to be. I would show all of them how wrong they were in 1969. I did not know if I was having a boy or a girl. Somehow I knew it was a girl...I craved cinnamon toast all the time...she was going to be so sweet I thought.

My first baby, my son was never far from my memory during my pregnancy. I knew that he was three years old now, but in my heart he was always a baby...he was always three days old, which was what he was the last time that I saw him. He was a loss that was put into a locked box deep within my heart where we were safe from harm. This pregnancy was different. This was a baby that would be mine to have and hold...to cradle more than three days..there would be no pain associated with this baby...I could feel all the feelings of joy...all the love of having a child. I did not have to be afraid this time, I knew about labor and delivery...I knew what to expect...I knew I was prepared because I had already done this before.

This pregnancy was so very different from the first one. I was married and had a ring on my finger to prove that there was a mother and a father to make this family whole. I did not have to hide my pregnancy, I was welcomed to come visit my mother at work to let her co-workers marvel at the fact that my mother was going to be a grandmother. I could proudly walk around during the day instead of under the dark of night so that everyone could see that I was going to have a baby. Everyone talked about the baby...did I want a boy or a girl...(I secretly wished for a girl)...how was I feeling and was I ready to change my life. I was told that I looked absolutely radiant with that natural mother glow about me. There were child birthing classes that my husband and I took together in order to be prepared for the birth of our "first" child. He would be by my side in the labor and delivery room as the baby was being born. I would be awake for this birth so that I could see the moment that the baby was born. There were showers with gifts and a nursery that was set up with just the right crib and bedding. There were people and things anxiously awaiting the birth of this child.

Mother's Day, May 13th of 1973 was a difficult day for me. My baby was due any day now, but I found myself in a depression and always on the verge of tears. I thought so much about my first baby, my son, and I felt ashamed because of the adoption. Here I was having another baby only three years later, here I was happy and waiting to hold my child. I couldn't take care of my first child, even though at the time adoption was the best thing I thought I could of done. How could I take care of this child? I couldn't remember the date he was born, or how much he weighed, what time he was born, or how long he was. What kind of mother was I not to remember these milestones? They were in that box locked so deep that I couldn't open it, or maybe I just didn't want to open it because it was too painful.  I was feeling the loss of him, the guilt and the fear of whether or not I was "good enough" to be this child's mother.

On May 15, 1973, my daughter was born. She was born at 6:31 in the morning, she weighed 8 pounds 6 ounces and was 21 1/2 inches long. She was perfect...pink and so pretty with her rose bud lips, and shocking red orange hair. I couldn't of loved her more. I would look into her beautiful blue eyes and see the need and the love she had for me also. I did not have to memorize the sweetness of her face...I never had to place her in the arms of a stranger...she was beautiful and she was mine. I could wrap my arms around her and comfort her when she cried...I could sing songs to her...I could be the "perfect" mother to her. As I held her I couldn't even think about giving her up, I couldn't imagine that ever happening.  I felt as if I was given a second chance to do the "right" thing not only for my child but also for me. For the first time I saw my own parents in a different light also. I saw my mother holding this child with such loving care and giving me "motherly advice"...my father was already spoiling his little princess by buying up every pretty little dress he could find. I saw that they too finally had a grandchild that would  never leave them...they too would feel the love of this little baby girl.

It was the beginning of what appeared to be the perfect family.