This is what I wrote for writers group last week. Tonight, we are going to see Eat Pray Love together. Did I mention, I love this group of ladies?
Women have our version of war stories. We tell the tales of our children's births(and adoptions too) with relish. Years may have passed, but it all plays over again like a home movie when the opportunity arises. Whether our tale is cautionary or celebratory, we share with our women friends. Birth stories are our oral tradition. We teach the young mothers, and we commiserate with the veterans through our common experience.
This morning, as I was cooking sausage and eggs, my 2 youngest sat at the kitchen counter, hungry for their stories. I never imagined how pleasurable it would be to tell my 3 birth stories to my 9 and 11 year old children. They sat in rapt attention and delighted in the details. Everything about their circumstances pleases them. Caleb, being Mondays child, fair of face, always the joyful, smiling one, looked serene and satisfied that his birth was easy. Gabrielle, aware that she is Tuesdays child, full of grace, was unfazed by the lack of grace displayed by her mother during the occasion of her birth. (I had the flu and told my doctor - If I am not already in labor, make me be in labor NOW because I am not doing this pain twice!) She is okay with knowing that the wild-eyed woman with the dry heaves demanding an epidural was her Mama on the day before her birth. Then they wanted their big brothers story too. The sacred first birth full of surprise and wonder. We all secretly envy Christian, the child born on the Sabbath day is fair and wise and good and gay. Okay, so with me it's not so much of a secret when I shake my fists at the heavens and say, why wasn't I born on Sunday!? Guess what? Saturdays child works hard for a living. Oh, well. Back to work...