During my last postpartum doctor's appointment, my OB described me as his "unicorn" patient. While not necessarily the description you'd expect (or want) from the guy examining your ladybits, I knew what he meant. I have four children, all of whom entered the world in very different ways. Number one was an emergency C-section, number two was a scheduled C-section, number three was a surprise VBAC (vaginal birth after C-section) with no pain medication, and number four was an induced VBAC with an epidural. My situation is unique because VBACs are not standard protocol after one C-section and even more sparsely performed after the second. To have two VBACs after two C-sections is, apparently, extremely rare.
The nurse dabbed the tip of the ink pen with her tongue. Swiping a quick test scratch at the corner of the notepad, she looked at the first patient. “And what’s your name, my dear?” “Cinderella.” The patient replied in a dreamy voice. Her eyes were closed. “The Fairy Godmother has turned a pumpkin into a carriage, my mice into footmen, and my ragged clothes into a beautiful ballgown that shimmers in the darkness. Even my shoes are lovely-they’re made of glass, but smooth and comfortable as the finest leather.”
When I became a mother, I knew I would face so many challenges, both things I was prepared for and things I wasn't. But one thing I really didn't see coming? My oldest son doesn't say "I love you."
It's not like he's never said it, but he's never gone out of his way to utter those words out of emotion. When his brothers and sister cuddle up to him and say it, he'll sometimes say it back, usually after I've reminded him that it would be nice for them to hear it. I explain that his siblings might not understand that he loves them if he doesn't actually tell them. What I don't tell him is that his grown-up mommy is sensitive that way, too, because for a long time, it broke my heart not to hear him tell me he loves me.
