Today is Joseph, my first-born's, 34th birthday. How can it be?
Wasn't it just yesterday that we brought him home from the hospital, two babies ourselves? We had no idea what we were doing. Do any of us ever, really, have a clue?
We are tossed into the parenting thing, not knowing what's ahead. Because if any of us truly knew, would we still take the leap? I’m not so sure.
To a degree, I romanticized being a parent, just like everything else in my life, up to that point. Living in a make-believe world helped me survive.
Going into my first pregnancy, I remember saying, to anyone who would listen, that I would do the entire thing sans drugs, I would be a champion breast-feeder and would overall knock it out of the park. My labor and post-partum experience would be one for the books, something to aspire to.
We make our plans and we hear God laughing.
Not only was I given what seemed like a pharmacy full of drugs, but Joseph was born by C-section after 24 hours of labor due to failure to progress. Breast-feeding was a disaster. And I felt like a sleep-deprived emotional and physical failure.
Of course, I wasn't. But my feelings told me something entirely different.
Days sped by, then months, and my precious Joseph became the joy of my life. By the time he was three months old, he slept through the night. We could take him anywhere and he was mostly well-behaved. He was not perfect, as no human is, but he was darn close. God knew I needed that.
Since his dad worked nights, he was my snuggle buddy in the evening as we watched foxes and jackrabbits from our deck, then watched baseball on tv and read books before bed. Joseph was happy and responsible and just about as sweet as he could be. He was my little companion, and I loved being his mama.
When his brother, James, was born, Joseph would not wake us in the morning, but would go downstairs, get his own breakfast and watch Barney until James woke up.
I could always trust him not to get into any mischief. Truly, he was a dream child. Again, God knew what I needed.
When I look back on those early days of motherhood, I have regrets, of course. I wanted to sleep desperately and should have spent less time waiting for him to sleep through the night and more time being in the present.
Wishing the time away wasn't a good thing. It never is.
Sitting up in the middle of the night, over and over again, with a baby boy that simply wanted to eat and play, wasn't much fun, either. There were times I lost my patience while being worn out, hormonal, and still healing from surgery.
If I went back now, knowing what I know, would it be different? I've had a few sleepless nights with my granddaughters, too, and it's even more of a struggle the older I get. So maybe not, but I like to think it would be.
If you had told me at 28 that I would be a parent for life, not just until the magical age of 18 years, I may have laughed. I am not sure what I thought, but I surely didn't consider the permanence of being a parent.
I had an idea that you raise them, send them to college, then all would be honky dory, live happily ever after land. Off to their own families and own lives, with rainbows and butterflies and the like.
I didn't think of the financial or emotional burden of it times three, once James and Alessandra arrived.
But you know what? I really, honest to goodness, wouldn't trade it! Was there a time when I would have? Yes. And I would tell everyone I knew to not have children.
Careless words, they were, so, I confessed them as such, my sinful attitude, and moved on.
Today, even with the ups and downs that parenting has brought -- and will bring -- I can honestly say I'd do it all over again.
Happy Birthday, Joseph.
We made it.