Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 1: Begin

I was born in the "Summer of Love." Not that my parents were paying attention. July is very hot in South Alabama, and it's even harder to be interested in anything when mommy is 9 months along & daddy has just wrapped up summer camp with the National Guard. If their minds were anywhere other than on my imminent arrival, they were out in space-- either following the events at The Cape, or checking out a new series called Star Trek.

I was almost the baby that wasn't. My poor mom suffered endometriosis something horrible. Migraines, cramps, nausea: you name it, she got it once a month. She and dad had hopes of starting a family right after they got married in 1961. Didn't everyone? But month after month, year after year, no baby. Finally a doctor not only believed that my mom was suffering once a month instead of being "hysterical," he gave it a name & told her that all of the cramping had twisted her ovaries out of place so that all her good efforts were being launched out into the space of her abdomen. Well. So a little surgery to get those ovoids tacked back in place, a short recovery period, and then me.

My birth story, as written by my mom in my baby book: "I entered the hospital at 10:00 a.m. on July 31. They took me to the third floor where they have the labor and delivery rooms. They prepared me and broke my water. They gave me two shots which put me to sleep until about 3:30. All this time your daddy was in the waiting room. He must have been very tired because he only had an hour's sleep that night, because we were timing my pains. At about four o'clock, they took me to the delivery room and put me on the delivery table. You were a big baby and the doctor had to use forceps to pull you out. You looked so plump and pretty. And you cried your little head off. You were born at 4:22 p.m. Your color at first was a pale blue but when you started breathing on your own you changed to a pretty white. I think you were born with the fattest, prettiest cheeks I've ever seen. I was allowed to see and hold you for the first time at 9:00 p.m."

The unmentioned, less poetic parts of story: That to this day my dad will not play canasta because he & my mom stayed up all night playing it while they timed out the contractions. (I don't know if he willingly stayed up with anticipation, kindly did so because he loved my mother, or was threatened with his life if he dared fall asleep. They don't say, except that he won't play canasta.) That my birthday was a busy day; my poor mom wasn't even assigned a room when she arrived-- they just parked her in a hall with a privacy curtain until a delivery room opened up. That she even had to have a substitute doctor! Dr. Tankersley couldn't catch with his hands all bandaged; summer cookout, new sliding glass door, forgot something in the kitchen, you get the idea.... but he did supervise the sub Dr. Russell.

Elizabeth Veronica, born July 31, 4:22 p.m., 8 lbs. 3 oz., 20 inches

I am named after my mom's two grandmothers who helped raise her; Granny Elizabeth was her own dad's mother and Babchu Veronica was her mom's mother.

My dad tells this story about how awed he was with me. He found me tiny. He found he could cradle my head in the palm of his hand and my bottom would just reach the crook of his elbow. It was one of those tender moments that photographers love. Good thing there was wasn't one. I ruined the moment by having a poopy diaper, and you know those don't stay contained in a cloth diaper that just gapes off of a newborn. Dad describes it as slimy-green running all over his arm & down his elbow. Eww. Thanks, dad.

There are few picture of me as a baby; remember, this is the late 60's. Even home photos took money & time. But there's a few of me screaming in the bath tub. (Funny, I adore long baths.) A few with different relatives. My cousin has unearthed a few from my baptism that I'd never seen until last year, so obviously my parents had their hands full of me & not camera that day. There's even a few of me pulling up on furniture. But every picture you see of me over the age of a month show a roly-poly chubbette with mere dimples where my knees & ankles should be. Let's just say that breastfeeding wasn't supported in the 60's either. We'll never know what/how it happened, but the doctor told my mom that she wasn't making enough milk and that I wasn't regaining my weight as quickly as he wanted me to. So by the age of 2 weeks, I was off the breast and on a barley & milk filled bottle. Jars of Gerber were only 2 days behind. I couldn't sit up and I was eating "solids." To this day my dad calls me Lardbottom. Thanks, dad.

(Lest you think my dad heartless, I am a daddy's girl. And he really adores me. He's just a guy, but even guys can cry. One year, we all were watching some old home movies my dad had made, and we found one he'd forgotten about. It was of me and HIS father. Papa S. was sitting on a bed with a 3-month-old me, and he was getting me to follow his car keys with my eyes and head. The forceps marks were slow to fade and Papa S. was worried about little me. I was his fourth grandchild, but he was worried. Seeing that scene again, this time knowing that his own father would be dead less than 6 months after that..... it's one of the few times I've seen my father cry. The next time would be at my high school graduation.)

I look at my "firsts," and I see my daughter: smiling at 5 weeks and general seeming happy, really wanting to sit up and trying so hard by 3 months, crawling by 5 months, pulling up to stand by 6 months, clapping and cruising on furniture at 8 months, walking a week before my first birthday. Liking eating. Not having much hair at all that first year (or two.)

Maybe, having her around is a part of why I want to write these "tales." In many ways, my story could be her story. She'll be her own person, sure, but it doesn't hurt to remind myself just what I may be getting in to.