25

In as much as nothing starts and ends in a lifetime, let’s agree that this story starts in 24 and ends in 25. Dr. Gee said that my tubes were scarred, blocked, and that I could not have children without some extra work, come back and see me when you want to have kids. I went home, and my husband and I danced the Joy Dance.

(For future reference, I will digress to describe now and forever, the Joy Dance. You face one another, hold hands, and both kick to your right two times, and then switch and both kick to your left.)

A week later, on vacation in Cancun, we conceived our first child.

Now we get to 25. I thought I had the flu and Julia at work burst out laughing and said, You don’t have the flu, you’re pregnant. How rude! She was right.

My feminist husband was immediately and appropriately ecstatic; I was not so sure. Remember 19? This wasn’t part of the plan. But my feminist husband was so happy that I went along. It wasn’t easy. The flu didn’t go away after two weeks. When I started swelling up, I was mortified. No one ever mentioned my pregnancy glow; it was more like a pregnancy fog.

When I was still a presentable six-month size — the cute pregnancy size — my colleagues at work invited us to a pot-luck Friday night supper. The hour arrived and I said, I don’t feel like doing this. Call the boss and tell her I feel tired. My feminist husband did as commanded. Julia called back a minute later saying, Get over here. It’s a shower for you.

The eighth month was August in Pennsylvania, 10 degrees hotter than anywhere else on earth. And I was 20 degrees hotter than everyone else around me. There was nothing I could do but go to the bathroom, soak myself in cold water, and wait for the water to steam off.

We picked a name for the unknown child: Lassiter. A family name. A surname, the proud name of a great-uncle, a General in World War I, third in command to Pershing. Good name for either a boy or a girl, we were wiping the sexist expectations off the slate for this next generation. It was the least I could do for the good fight, if I was going to go ahead with this childbirth throwback.

I remember waking up the morning of Lassiter’s birth. I was awakened by a jolt. I waddled to the bathroom, waddled back and woke up the husband, said Let’s go! We drove as fast as a mini pick-up would go, got to the hospital, they said no you’re not dilated go home, drove back home, I said Let’s go it’s happening, we drove back as fast as the truck would go, and this time the water burst in the elevator. At 3:30 pm Lassiter was born. I have been grateful ever since that Lassiter turned out to be a girl. I am also grateful that my plans (See 19) failed.