You know what they say about making plans...when you do, God laughs.
Oh, things got underway relatively easily. I applied and was admitted to University of Michigan, and after a minor issue first semester (the issue was called ACADEMIC PROBATION for failing calculus)...found my groove. I decided to become an English teacher.
And that's the first place where the plan began to fail me. I was accepted into the teaching program late, and that meant using my third year at U of M to mostly pass time while I was waiting to start the two-year certificate program. I got a part-time job in a small local produce store, signed up for blow-off classes (I paid U of M tuition for ASTRONOMY? Really???), and spent every possibly waking moment I wasn't at work or in class with my boyfriend.
And then my father died.
After that, I spent a lot of time in bed. I only had eight credits that semester, blessedly, so there was actually very little to miss. But I missed most of it anyway. I had skipped enough of a survey history class on the Vietnam war that I had no real notes to study. I had to beg for the information from my brother -- coincidentally in the same section as I was. My total lack of responsibility also necessitated the mother of all cram sessions the weekend before the final as I tried to read all required texts in 48 hours. Miraculously, I earned a B+ in that class and could put that awful year behind me.
Things seemed to get back on track after that. I settled into teacher training, four-pointed my last two years of classes, and finally felt like I'd found my place in the world of classrooms. The college boyfriend and I parted ways, I started dating my best friend, and we were soon engaged and married by age 26 -- a year later than my plan, but I could live with it! We socialized often with my college roommate and her husband, spending weekends camping, playing games, helping work on their house, or just hanging out being young and free.
Soon, however, talk of babies entered the conversation. Remember the master plan? I was to have had all children birthed by age 30. That milestone was approaching, and I hadn't even started the project! Our friends got pregnant first, and that put the pressure on us to really get serious about procreating. I figured it would be super easy, too...after all, my mom had seven kids in eight years. Surely there was nothing to it.
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| Here I am holding our friends' baby literally minutes after she was born...Jan. 1995 |
Except there was...there was a lot to it. For one thing, I insisted we buy a house first. That delayed the process for a few months, though we were haphazardly attempting to start our family anyway. Once in the house, we continued in earnest. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Just when I was certain I could never get pregnant...well, I did. I was ecstatic the day we found out...we had tried for so long -- almost a year -- and I was eagerly anticipating what a glorious time I'd have during this special experience.
Can you hear God laughing at me again?
I won't go into the details of the pregnancy and birth except to say that I never share my stories with new moms-to-be. Like everything else in my life...nothing went according to plan. There were issues and complications all throughout the pregnancy. I failed childbirth miserably, and had my case taken place decades earlier...my daughter and I would surely both have died. At one point during labor, I sorta wished I could just quit and die valiantly trying to do what so many women do with a slight cough and maybe a sneeze. However, after 48 hours of labor and the inevitable c-section, we finally got this:
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| The first Simonte grandchild...born May 17, 1996. |
Keep looking. You won't find that here. That's right...my plan failed me yet again. Sent home 48 hours after surgery under orders of what was surely a Nazi run insurance company plan, I was in rough shape. The baby was jaundiced, contracted thrush and transmitted it to me during our quickly failing nursing attempts. I didn't want company, and I remember sobbing to my mom over the phone after sneaking out of a visit, crying pitifully that, "I don't even think I love her! And she's always here...she NEVER LEAVES!"
Ooohh...yeah...I was a mess of hormones, drugs, pain...I wasn't sleeping...I had the lactation consultants all up in my rack touching me...it was pretty awful. But like any phase of life...it passed. A few weeks later, I could load that baby up in her carrier to go to Grandma's house. Craving solitude and exercise, I rode my bike (and got in HUGE trouble for doing it...but I did it!). I could put the baby in her stroller, take walks and get out of the house.
I even took one day and slept all day except to feed the baby. Literally. I'd feed her, change her, put her down...and go back to bed. After that...things got much better. I started to really like her. I liked her a lot! She started smiling, filling out, getting interactive. She was pretty darn cute. And everyone else?
My goodness, you'd have thought that child was the second coming. Surely she was worthy of my actual LOVE if everyone else was making such a fuss over her, right? Right. She was.
And she is. Today, my much wanted, painfully acquired and often frustrating firstborn daughter is sixteen years old. I don't know how that happened. I see that picture of her as an infant and it's like it was moments ago. I can smell her...feel the warmth coming through the blanket...feel the impossibly soft skin on her cheeks. But then I turn around and this is what I see:
Sixteen. She has a driver's permit. She gets good grades and has sooooo many friends. She's creative, artistic, quirky, musical. She's confident in herself in so many ways that I never was. And she loves me in spite of the fact that we are so much alike. We can irritate each other in an instant, but not two seconds later she's throwing her arms around me for a hug.
Sixteen. Unbelievable. Incredible. Mind-blowing. Just like my daughter...
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