My Bundle of Joy
by Rene Walden

As I look at my daughter, who's recently turned twenty, my mind drifts back to a time when life was carefree. At twenty I had no worries and very few responsibilities. That was, until my beloved family practitioner spoke two little words I'd never forget...you're pregnant! They burned into my brain, and I did what any other rational, sane woman would do...I ran from his office crying and told him in no uncertain terms that he was nuts!

After a few days of denial, I went back to see him, apologizing profusely for my outburst. Good man that he is, we discussed the vast number of topics that go along with pregnancy. My mind was still numb, but I tried my best to listen to the flood of information that he rattled off to me. At least this time there was no screaming involved.

A baby wasn't on any of the lists I'd made for myself, at least not at that particular time, but after several home tests along with the results of the family practitioner, I resolved myself to the fact that I was, indeed, going to have a baby. People had babies all the time, right?

With the exception of a few minor mishaps, namely my belly getting stuck under the steering wheel, my nine months passed with ease. The time had finally come for me to see this wonderful person that had been growing inside me! So with a mixture of excitement and anticipation, we headed to the hospital. Being a single mom at the time, “we” consisted of ten very excited and rowdy friends, my parents and my best friend.

We wheeled the car into the emergency entrance and my dad ran inside to let them know we're here and in labor. I raised my head just in time to see a nurse weighing in at no more than one hundred pounds tooling a wheelchair to my side of the car. Oh, did I mention I'm nine months pregnant, so swollen there's sure to be a dam about to burst, and I haven't weighed one hundred pounds since first grade?

The tiny nurse managed to get me inside after slipping and sliding with the help of my dad and took me back to what is known as the ‘labor room'. The one I was in wasn't like all the ones I'd seen on television. It looked more like a bedroom. There was a nice little cradle; a big wooden rocker and even the hospital bed had a pretty headboard. “Oh how sweet,” I thought as I looked around and lost my self in a dreamy fantasy where things were soft and cuddly and everything smelled like baby lotion. My pleasant thoughts were short-lived when a crotchety old nurse told me I was in the “birthing room”, which was for women, unlike me, who had uncomplicated pregnancies. Apparently mine was complicated? This was all news to me, so I did what any other pregnant lady would do…I got hysterical!    more >>