I’m not going to focus on my torrid romance with my husband that led up to having four children, but instead, just get straight to the point. Not only did I want to be a mother–I wanted to be pregnant! By age 23, I was expecting Angela Therese, our first. I loved being pregnant, and had no serious morning sickness or other side effects save two: I fainted during Mass (way before Marie Osmond fainted on Dancing with the Stars, I was a world class fainter). I conked my head on a pew but otherwise had no issues. The second instance of “pregancy distress” occurred during a “Hawaiian Theme” party after consuming M&Ms and Beer on an empty stomach. The host of the party, Jerry Cork, who had survived Auschwitz as an infant (and was one our best friends, but that’s another digression), was able to diagnose my pregnancy in a jiffy by the M&M-beer reaction. Other than those two incidents, pregnancy was uneventful. I exercised daily, did all my Lamaze moves, and more. The only other notable event was our decision as to where to give birth. We planned to have the baby at St. James Hospital in Chicago Heights, Illinois. However, having become friends with another couple, Bill and Pat Seiler, who had their first child in Oregon, with Bill in the labor room and through delivery, we decided that we wanted that plan for our child. (Bill and Pat were expecting their second, Michelle, at that time, so we had support.) We all marched over to St. James Hospital to discuss our wishes with the Head of the Hospital, Sister Something-or-Other who had a large beaked nose and a permanent scowl. She told us it was impossible to accommodate us, since she didn’t want new fathers dropping like flies in the delivery room and having to sweep them off the floor like bugs. Realizing that we didn’t have enough time to fight Nun Hall, we moved our birth locations to Ingalls Memorial Hospital in Harvey, Illinois.
Coming up next–the ice-storm and birth of an Acquarian
Computilo 