Taking public transportation with Patience seems to bother everyone but me.
I’m terrified of driving. I grew up seeing my step-mom get into car collisions and with a nonna who never drove.
If I had a car I would live in it, that would be the only justifiable reason for the purchase of such a monstrosity and the insurance – proof something is most likely to go wrong – that accompanies it.
Bonus: I am medicated, my pill bottle advises against driving.
I’m told I can’t not drive with a child. Yet I haven’t had any magnetic pull leading me behind the wheel of some death trap.
Patience has a blast on the buses, trains, and planes – hehheh. She talks to people, dances, and sings.
I wasn’t concerned about materialistic appearances before, why would I be now? Especially now that I have a little one looking up to me?
February 29, 2008, I was twenty-two and bored of being pregnant.
Bumpy bus rides and raspberry tea did not induce labour the way pre-natal websites implied.
March 1, I awoke from an unprecedented pain. A warm bath didn’t sooth me, and my passed out drunk fiancé was just as useless.
Hours later, he awoke and his friend drove us to the hospital. Upon arrival I announced I was going to die.
“Oh we bring life here,” a nurse said in an incredibly annoying tone.
Nurses lectured if I had attended pre-natal classes I wouldn’t be in such pain. The duration of my pregnancy involved a heart wrenching move to Ontario from BC, full-time employment, an abusive fiancé, and the obligatory doctor appointments. I was shy, anxious, and anti-social. A pre-natal class was not a realistic pass time.
I think I puked on one of those lecturing jerks.
A male resident reminded me that delivery should not be painless, and scolded my request for drugs. I reminded him he had never even experienced period cramps. I then had morphine injected in my sweet cheeked bum on a regular basis.
All the power to the women who went through labour drug free, but to those who were condescending about it to me: I’m not the kind of idiot who would pass up free, incredibly good, legal drugs. No I wasn’t a hero, I was awesome.
I was told I wouldn’t need a c-section. I knew different.
Thirty six hours later it was determined I needed a c-section. The brat changed her mind and wanted to go back into her womb home.
Nurses sewed me back up and put my insides where they ought to been, speaking of how they had missed lunch that day.
On that disconcerting note, Patience Rachel entered a less womby world March 2, 2008.
The good news is when all was done I was treated like a queen in the maternity ward. Leaving those amazing women there was like leaving my own womb home for the second time. Thank you maternity Lakeridge Health Oshawa ladies.
“‘You’re not going to just leave that tiny girl up there all alone, are you?’ the stranger asks, his tone grave. He’s pointing an accusatory finger up at my daughter, Sasha, who -giggling and triumphant, her hair aglow with the last rays of the evening- has just scaled the summit of a gigantic rock. ‘She’ll fall.'”
I smile politely. I’m used to unsolicited parental advice by now. ‘No, she won’t,’ I say, careful to keep my eyes on Sasha and on her more cautious older brother, Jacob, who’s leaning against the base of the rock, a safe thirty-odd feet below his sister, eating an icecream sandwich and pondering the mechanics of subtraction. ‘She loves this rock. Knows every crevice. And she’s older than she looks.'”
This is a fun, easy, and relatable collection of essays. In addition to dealing with unwanted parenting advice Copaken Kogan writes about dealing with other parents from Mommy and Me classes, school, her son being cast in a Star Trek film, old lovers, neighbours, and post-baby sex.