On Memorial Day, my oldest will add another number to his age.

It was way back in 1996, when I woke up {the day before my middle brother’s wedding} not feeling so good. I had three weeks to go before my due date. I had nothing in way of baby products. Nothing. No carseat. No babybed. No diapers. No clothes. No blankets. No anything.

Although, a baby was on the way, the baby wasn’t so much on my mind.

I was separated from my husband, so I suppose you could say it had been a difficult time. I can’t really share more than that because it’s not just my story to tell. I’m sure y’all can appreciate that.

Back to my story.

I woke up feeling like I was about to start my cycle. Crampy, crampy, and more crampy. Having never given birth before, I had no idea what the beginning of labor felt like. I ventured out of the room I was in and went in search of my Mom. I knew she could tell me what was wrong. She was my Mom and we all know that Moms know everything.

She was feverishly gathering stuff together to head to the church. She was going to be cooking all day in preparation for the rehearsal dinner that night. She stopped when she saw the look on my face. I told her how I felt and she said, and I quote, “Just call the doctor and see what she says. I’m sure everything is fine. You’re not having that baby today. You are NOT having that baby today.”

Humph.

My dad drove me to the doctor. I went in and was checked. Dilated to 4 cm. “Get to the hospital,” my doctor said.

I knew when I walked out of the doctor’s office I couldn’t let on that there was any issue. My Dad, bless his heart, doesn’t handle situations like that very well. I told him everything was fine.

“Why don’t you just drive me up to the church and I’ll tell Mom what the doctor said.”

I walked into the church kitchen, my Mom saw me and knew. ‘Cuz she’s a mom. She began barking out orders right and left.

“You do this. You do this. You do this. And you do this!”

It was happening. My baby was coming.

What?! My baby was coming? I’m not ready. I’m not ready for this. Panic, panic, panic.

My dad drove me to the hospital, my best friend held my hand during labor and my mom made it before he was born. She was on my right and my best friend was on my left. We laughed and cried. It was a special moment.

And then everyone left.

There was the wedding rehearsal. I missed it. And the wedding.

Those hours spent in the hospital, alone with my newborn son were some of the most bittersweet moments of my life. My marriage was essentially over before it had even begun. I was heartbroken, angry, confused. In my arms, I held this little person who carried a piece of both of us within him. He was perfect and beautiful. My heart ached from the love that spilled over. I cried tears over him. Tears of thankfulness for him. Tears of sorrow. Tears of happiness. Tears of loneliness. Basically, I cried. A lot.

From that first moment when the doctor placed him in my arms, one thing has never wavered. My love for him.

I’ve fallen in my parenting. I’ve failed. I’ve disappointed. I’ve frustrated. But, I’ve always loved.

Fourteen years. Fourteen revolutions around the sun. I pray he has many, many more.

{I apologize for this somewhat disjointed and babbling post. I get like that sometimes.}