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Friday's Child

Our second baby wasn't due until the middle of June, but in the first week of that month in 1972 I was seized by the a strong compulsion to clean the house--no matter that it was hot and humid and we had no air conditioning--everything had to be clean. For some time I had wanted my body back. I kept misjudging the proximity of doorways and bumping into furniture. I navigated space feeling like a huge, ungainly, ocean-going-liner. 

Paul was working in a facility for people with developmental disabilities, and the upcoming weekend would be a long one off for him. When he told me that he was bringing home a guest for four days--one of the people who lived there--I thought ungracious thoughts. With a toddler who had just turned two at the end of May, and our second baby due in just over a week, the thought of an extra person staying for four days was exhausting.  But when our guest Philip came home with Paul after his shift on Thursday, seeing how excited he was at the brightly coloured sheets on his bed, I gave my heart a shake.  Where he lived there were only white sheets and uniformity of everything else. Maybe the weekend would not be so tiring after all, I thought to myself.

That was before the drama unfolded next door. 

Paul had taken our toddler Peter with him to our neighbour's home and had gone down to their basement. Our houses were new and had unfinished basements with a rudimentary stair railing beside the stairs. We had added a board to the side of our stairs for safety's sake, but our neighbours' stairs had an open gap between the railing and the stairs.

Not long after he left, our door burst open and Paul ran in with Peter in his arms, crying at the top of his lungs. He had fallen through the gap on the stairs, onto the concrete basement floor where he hit his head. Paul quickly drove him to the doctor, and after being checked over, he was sent home with instructions that he be monitored closely and woken up every few hours through the night.

That night, with Peter soundly asleep, and Philip happily settled in the guest room, all was well. I crept into our bed with gratitude, but as I lowered my body, I felt a gush of warm liquid. "Oh, no!" I said, "my waters just broke."

I hadn't packed for the hospital yet, but I was so tired that I said to Paul, who was sitting bolt upright now, "Don't worry, I'm sure nothing's going to happen yet, let's get some sleep and I'll pack in the morning."

 We changed the sheets and turned off the light. A few moments later, it was I who sat bolt upright.

"Paul! I'm packing now," I said, "I don't think we should wait." The labour pains had started. We scrambled out of bed and I quickly threw things I'd need into a bag.

Paul's parents lived across the road from us, and we drove across to ask his mum to stay with Peter and Philip and wake Peter up every couple of hours.

As we left for the hospital, I said to Paul, "If we have a girl, can we name her Brenda, after your mum?" In 1972 there were no ultrasound images of the baby during pregnancy, so the sex of a newborn baby was always a surprise.

Our doctor was roused from his bed to deliver our baby who seemed to be in a rush to arrive, and at around 2.00 a.m., a nurse put our little girl into my arms.There is no feeling to compare with holding the tiny one who has been growing inside you for 9 months. Gratitude, love, anticipation, protectiveness--sheer joy--these words only begin to describe the flood of emotion I felt as tears trickled down my cheeks.

The little girl who was in such a hurry to be born, grew into a little socialite with blond hair and wide brown eyes. She would wake with the dawn every morning, singing, and the world was her friend from the start.

It's 44 years since that Friday, and today we celebrate her birth. I haven't stopped being grateful. As a daughter she is such a blessing--caring and kind--and I watch in admiration how she mothers her own daughters--and does battle for them when it's called for.

We are so blessed with our precious daughter!

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