When a Man and a Woman Really Love Each Other...

Instead of popping right into my recent escapades as a working mom, I should tell you all how I got here...

I am now 42.  I got married at 36.  In the time it takes to get a college degree these days, I got married and produced two children.  Before I got married, I was happy.  I was content.  I had my house, I had a dog, and I had a very fulfilling career as an educator.  I come from large family, so if I was sad or lonely, I would simply call up one of my siblings and bemoan my singleness or loneliness.  Then, when I heard children crying or screaming in the background, I forgot my singledom and thanked the heavens that I could go to bed in the quiet with my glass of wine and wake up at my own leisure. 

Then I met my husband-to-be, who was sort of a male version of me.  Long story short, I hooked him good, and we were married in two years. 

Marriage is a compromise.  Marriage at 36 is a huge one.  We had few rules in our house, but going to bed angry fit our lifestyle quite well, as did slamming doors and hurling epithets at each other when angry.  But the October 14 wedding came and went, and, much to our surprise and pleasure, things were working out well. 
Then Thanksgiving hit, and something was amiss: my period.  I am not one of those women who cramp or become “moody”.  I have a period every 21 days without fail.  I am also very energetic, so when I had to be shaken awake in the mornings and I began to snore, we thought that something (or someone) may be up.  On Day 34, I bought a pregnancy test and a bottle of wine to drink with dinner.  On Day 35, I peed on the stick and went to go and make a cup of coffee.  About two sips into the blissful stuff and my pen poised for a crossword puzzle, I hear, “Holy $%*T, have you seen this thing?” 

One month into my marriage, and I was knocked up. 

Now, I should probably confess that we lived in sin for a short while after we got engaged, and that I was not ever interested in The Pill, so this should have come as no surprise.  But Grandpa Harper, bad Catholic that he was, must have had a choke hold on Saint Who-ever-it-is-that-prevents-these-things-from-happening because a month, a month after we became betrothed, I was on my way to becoming a mom. 

We cleaned up our act (and our house) and got ready to be parents. 

First thing on our list was to count back and make sure that all the Baptists in my husband's family couldn’t hold this pregnancy thing against me (Reader, please note, that this would have been my fault entirely).  In Catholic World, it’s pretty normal to have shotguns on a wedding invitation, so it was the Baptists we had to convince of our innocence.  The doctor said that we were in the clear. In fact, Grandpa Harper must have released his choke hold right after "I do," because according to the doctor, the great event happened on our three day honeymoon.  

Second on this responsible parenting list was to…well, become responsible parents.  Again, not easy when one has lived alone for 20 odd years. We were both very used to sleeping in whenever we wanted to do so, eating adult food, occasionally drinking too much, and the other debauchery that accompanies life without children. We threw out the caffeine, stored the alcohol, and went whole grain.  There were to be no slammings, no epithets, and very few goings to bed angry.

Finally, we had to decide whether the house we lived in was suitable for a little one.  It was small for a single woman with a dog.  It got even smaller when a six foot two man moved in with me and Jerry, so I had a really hard time wrapping my brain around having a little human sharing our space, as well.  But we liked the area; we liked our neighbors; we liked not having to pay a lot a month; and we liked the idea that I could stay at home with the baby if I so chose and not cry every month from financial distress.  So we stayed put. 

All of these things had an impact on my becoming a mother.  A thrilled, pregnant mother; a mother who was ready to take on parenthood; a mother who was able to bend thirty, nay fifty children in a classroom and on stage to her will.  A mother who threw all bets out the window when she saw that damn stick turn blue.