Landing My Life's Work

There was no interview. I did not respond to a classified ad or present a resume of my qualifications. My education to this point was not going to be of assistance in this particular long-term employment venture. Really, the job fell into my lap not because I pursued it but because I ignored the possibility of it being possible . . . for me.


In a waterslide whoosh of singular effort, preceded by hours of focused breathing, convulsing physical discomfort, and orders by initialed individuals dressed in tan cotton-poly blend scrubs, my biggest job to date landed in the waiting hands of Dr. Potestio of Saint Mary Corwin Hospital in Pueblo, Colorado. At the time, all I could utter was a surprised and tiny “oh!” of exclamation. I had anticipated hours more of concentrated pushing before the arrival of this miniscule mound of pink-skinned perfection into my world. Instead, with nary a single bearing down to be executed, my first day of parenthood had begun with a wee but lusty cry from a 5-pound, 6-ounce perfectly formed baby girl.

Though she would leave me for the required examinations and bathing, what she had started for me – a neon-lit M-O-M on the permanent letterhead of my life – would become my ongoing work. A 24-7 bonanza of thrills, spills, and more than a few uphills.

My first test I would fail: diapering 101. Her legs were twigs I felt sure would snap if I touched them, much less moved them into position for wiping, powdering, and taping securely! “Um, here,” I mumbled, handing her back to the ward nurse on duty, “I think I’m gonna need one more day before I tackle this. Let her put on some weight or something!” However, by that night, I could boast that she had ‘latched on’ as they say in the La Leche League handouts. We passed those twilight hours in a fog of fatigue and wonderment – me in my hospital gown and her in the knit cap and baby gown she would have to wear for her maiden voyage to her first home because her ignorant young father told her naïve young mother that we didn’t need to pack an outfit because the hospital gave them to all the new babies.

Somehow, though, I managed to overcome my lack of specialized education and the absence of an exhaustive training manual. She ate, slept, pooped, cried, laughed, grew, welcomed two more additions into our merry company, and became that oxymoron we all lovingly call ‘the adult child.’ And I’m STILL working!