My baby turns 30 on Thursday

Lo, 30 years ago: Tuesday 1/5/1982 dawned predictably gray and overcast with the occasional downpour in Salem. The world was smack in the middle of a recession, work scarce, and Jim was home. At 38 weeks along, I was ponderously pregnant, a veritable earth goddess of fecund amplitude, childbirth (please, please) imminent.

Tomato soup and sticky cheese for lunch then time for “Perry Mason.” I went to pee during a commercial, (probably at every commercial break by then,) but this time it was an unending stream. An absolute novice at this pregnancy stuff, I thought “I wonder if my water just broke?” It seemed too convenient to have that occur when I’m on the toilet, in the middle of the day. But then again, I’d had the textbook case of an ideal pregnancy, a picture of glowing good health.

Unscathed by morning sickness I had a few nauseous moments, in particular when a jellyfish flotilla washed onto the Manzanita shore. Living at the coast at that juncture, I habitually walked the dogs on the seven miles of pristine sandy beach but had to hold my breath until below the high tide line of decaying blue and black jellyfish carcasses. The stench was wretchingly pervasive.

In full-blown nesting mode, we moved to Salem anticipating more available work in a larger populace, and cobbled together enough money to buy a small house. That my parents lived nearby was added incentive.


Time passed, my water broke. We phoned up the birth clinic, told to come right away but expect hard labor likely hours away, (Yes, birth clinic. What, you expected a hospital? Hardly.) We got there at 2 p.m. and I had an immediate pelvic exam, Jim visibly uncomfortable witnessing the exam table/stirrup scenario, which I found vastly amusing. I loved that part.

Turns out I was in labor - which progressed rapidly to hard labor. Oh boy. This is where any lingering doubt I held about being of the mammal species was put to rest. Let me just add there is no dignity involved with actual childbirth.

During that stage of labor Jim was behind me on the bed, legs astraddle about my upper body, in position not to have to see anything, (right where I’d choose to be should I ever be called upon to witness a birth,) trusty pocket watch in hand, timing contractions. Except his watch didn’t have a second hand, a point of consternation to the clinic staff, a subject they’d address in future birthing classes. (Later I overheard Jim telling people of my “easy” delivery, which irked me no end. Hey, you try expelling a watermelon and tell me it’s easy…)

Tyler was born at 6:01 P.M., 8 lbs 9 oz, 20 inches long. It was love at first sight for our perfect baby; ten fingers, ten toes, dark hair, with a cupid’s mouth.

We’d been told all along that the baby was a boy, evidenced by heartbeat speed, (this was long before ultrasounds were de rigueur) so when they announced “You’ve got a girl” I asked “Are you sure?” (To my delight) they were.


Jim phoned my parents with the news saying we’d be at their house soon, (where we stayed the next couple weeks, pampered by our doting familia.) They’d taken to driving past our house to check if our car was in the driveway, suspicious I’d go into labor without telling them, (which was absolutely the plan.) We didn’t want a bunch of hoopla.

We left the clinic that evening in the wake of an ice storm, sidewalks and roads slick as glass. Picture ebullient new parents making that first attempt of securing the baby into the apparatus of a still alien infant car seat, while ice skating sans the skates, then driving slipping and sliding home at the stately speed of 10 mph. My parents got to hold the baby before she was two hours old.

Now let the hoopla begin!

The rest is herstory.

The proud parents



What an adorable little face!