She came early all the way around. I was young and already the mommy of a toddler. Married to a boy in the Army. At seven months pregnant, I flew home from Germany with our little one on my lap because we could only afford one ticket and the flight over-booked. Twenty-four hours of travel put me in premature labor. A few weeks later in the middle of the night, my water broke more than a month before my due date. The little blue baby fighting for life arrived.
Eighteen years later, I often still feel helpless with her.
She’s a normal girl now, but small and scrappy. Wide blue eyes and golden skin she didn’t get from me. Daddy’s genes. Soon she’ll leave for college if she doesn’t head for Australia in search of adventure. I tell her not to swim with sharks and crocodiles. She calls me Paula Anne, which means get out of her business. Adding the middle name has always been my way of saying behave yourself.
On the day of her birth, I stood at her bedside