So, in that vein, I'm just going to say,
Thank you Mom. I love you. Thanks for doing all the laborious labor.
xo
Your cranky now-grey-haired not-so-little girl.
(Even as early as my first hours, I was trying to express my
severe dislike/hatred/loathing of being in front of cameras.)
xo
Your cranky now-grey-haired not-so-little girl.
(Even as early as my first hours, I was trying to express my
severe dislike/hatred/loathing of being in front of cameras.)
Happy Fortieth Birthday, [daughter]
Today is Wednesday, February 8, and I have known since Christmas that you wanted me to write this for your fortieth birthday present. I have been procrastinating, of course, because how does a mother write all the things in her heart about her first child, a daughter? Besides, you were supposed to be born on January 30 and you waited and waited to come. Every little twinge or pain made me think that it was “time.” I had quit my job, cleaned the house two or three times, had all you clothes ready, and the bags were packed. I had read all the stuff about labor and Dad and I had taken the classes at the hospital. Finally, Sunday morning, February 13 I woke up with stomach pains and went potty. The pains subsided; I went back to bed. I don’t think Dad woke up. A little while later more pains, more to the bathroom. These pains were not like what was described in the class or literature I had read, so when Dad got up to go to church, I told him to go ahead, that I did not think these were labor pains. Little did I know that I was experiencing back labor, not described in all that I had read. While Dad was gone, I did call Grandma Roa, described my pains, and got an emphatic, “You are in labor.” So, when Dad got back, we started timing the pains, called the Dr. Mortensen’s office, and off we went to the hospital. You were stubborn about coming, because after they prepped me (not something I am going to describe here) and decided I was ready, off to the delivery room I went. The contractions slowed down; they gave me some oxygen; and the nurses went off to help with another delivery next door and Dr. Mortensen went off to eat. He had been delivering all night (Logan, Utah, LDS, lots of babies). So you and I had a battle for about an hour or more, tough contractions, trying to breathe and not panic, pulling on the straps on the bed so much so that I had blisters that peeled when I got home. Dad chose to not be in the delivery room because at that time dads were not allowed, even though Dr. Mortensen did give him the option. So, kid, I really labored for you, no drugs or anything. When everyone decided to check on me, your head was about to crown and out came this back haired baby girl, whom we had decided would be named [what you are really named.]
About the name: If my memory serves me, Dad had known that we were going to have a black haired baby girl even before we were married. [Visions/personal revelation] We had been given [a family] genealogy for a wedding present from one of Mom’s [Grandma Roa’s] cousins in Brigham City. I had looked through it several times while Dad was away in Iceland with the Navy and found some of the names interesting. As you know, Dad’s father’s name was Junious. Aunt Cora is Cora June. We talked about what to name our children even before we were ready to have any. We wanted the names to reflect family, but Junious, Roa Sara, Jasper Leatha, and Ollie Jane did not give us a lot to work with. I remembered the [name] from the [family] genealogy, a name beautiful, different, and honoring Grandpa June. So, long before your head crowned that day and we knew you were officially a girl, your name had been chosen. (No ultra sounds in those days to confirm the sex.)
At the hospital, the nurses taught me how to nurse you. And I thought you were doing well. When we got home, you did not cry a lot but did need to nurse about every two hours. I would hold you, think how beautiful you were, and talk to you. Now, for an only child mother and type A personality, I was a little nervous. Dad was more relaxed, still is. At your two-week check up, Dr. Payne was a little alarmed that you had lost a pound, instead of gaining. You only weighted in at 6 pounds, 13 ounces anyway. The doctor’s advice was to start you on rice cereal and formula, which we did immediately. I don’t think I nursed much longer because you were taking so much formula. And you loved the cereal, started to sleep though the night at six weeks, and were at normal weight at your next appointment. So much for being the “perfect” mother and nursing your first child.
As you got older, I started to read to you. Reading became a nightly ritual, the same books over and over again. You liked to play with them too, but carefully. I’d like to think that that early introduction to books has created this woman who reads voraciously. It is amazing to me that your eyesight is still as good as it is considering the flash light reading that you did after you could read for yourself when we thought you were asleep!
Your first couple of years were a learning time; I was learning to be a mother; there was only you. You took rides in your stroller, on the bike when you were older. You sat patiently for hours while I weeded the garden at Sister Hayward’s house. Teething was a big issue because you got sick with each tooth and could not sleep. Many a night you lay on our Dad’s stomach for comfort. Just when we thought you would not walk, one day you came walking out from under a quilt that I was tying, arms straight out in front of you for balance, but you had mastered walking.
And you have mastered so many things in your life—music, academics, friendships, crafting, work, etc. As you grew, stretched, questioned, pushed, mastered, we did have our clashes. I still remember one interchange in the kitchen in Logan when you were about seven. You made some comment about my “mothering” and my reply was “I have never been a mother before; I am just learning.” And that was the truth. Poor first children. Parents make so many mistakes with them. And as hyper, overachieving, “irrational,” and controlling (to be on my tombstone) a mother as I am, I know that I made mistakes. Nevertheless, you have mastered life. You left home essentially at 18 to go explore the world. There you have become your own person, one that I am so proud of. We once shocked some young wives on a “tour” of New York with our comments and honesty, aka“I love you but couldn’t live with you anymore.” You have learned and grown from “all that you have met,” all those who have influenced your life to help you to be the person you are on your fortieth birthday. Happy Birthday.
Love, Mom
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