Emily Downing Ball July 12, 1971
This is a repeat of my recent BlogSpot post because I am becoming rather attached to the new me. And since I have not finished the Mother Of Five Club saga here’s the first part again if you chanced to read it over there.
We were married a year. Be a couple for a year before starting a family sounded like good advice and we found that it passed fast and we were still happy with each other and our life.
So let’s take the kid plunge we reasoned. Don’t worry if it takes months or even a year said the doctor when I quite the pill. And use some protection for a few months until your body has time to readjust.
Barely weeks into commando there was just that one time when protection was too much trouble. And we found out how fertile we were.
I’m just tired and sick. You’re pregnant. No over the counter tests in those days. Finally official confirmation. I got sicker. My days went like this. I woke up, threw up, went to work, came home threw up, went to bed.
I was teaching. My usual lively classroom became a tomb. I dared anyone to talk, to move from their seat, to move in their seat, to look at their neighbor. They created some great art because they had nothing else to do.
I got sicker. I lost weight. A lot. Can’ t you give me something I whined to the doctor. Something safe. I remembered those thalidomide babies all too well. I can put you in the hospital was his reply. I will put you in the hospital if you cannot keep something down. Nope. I had a job that brought in a needed paycheck. Mashed potatoes and I became tenuous friends. Only three months. Only mornings.
Lies. Maybe for some. Not for me. Day and night for months. And months. And months. I’ll still be sick after the baby is born I sighed. Finally around month seven it subsided. Just in time for the No Room In The Inn for anything but baby part.
This child will be an only I decided. That will be just fine. Get it here safely and let it be healthy and that’s it. I will not do this again. Never.
While I was running in circles at the monument today there was a small plane attempting landings and take offs. I say attempting because there was much screeching of tires and unnecessary revving of the engine. Now a pilot I will never be but my Dad was and as I painfully listened to the learning curve being applied I developed a new respect for his chosen career. To do the thing right you have to have confidence, complete and total confidence in yourself and your machine. You have to commit and mean it.
When I was a teen, Dad decided to take us to Florida to visit friends and his oldest sister and her family. In a Piper Cub. This Piper Cub. A four seater.
From Ohio to Florida. And back. It was on the way back that the story takes place. Completely true and not embellished at all. (I actually thought I had already blogged about this but must have been a FB post only and you know how those get lost in the beast never to be seen again.)
We were at some small air strip in Georgia. Or South Carolina. There was a tiny visitor center, sketchy at best. We had probably mostly stopped for gas. We were miles from any type of civilization at all. A storm was approaching. One of those wall cloud type dark thunder storms. We were going to let it pass but then Mom saw the hand writing on the wall. Hours in this hell hole. My sister had already found rat poisoning in the bathroom and tried to eat it. “We’re not staying here another minute, Starke.”
Right. We loaded up. Dad was in his element. He headed us into the wind which was also into the coming storm. There were power lines at the end of the runway. Small low strung power lines. It was a short runway. Very short. Actually I don’t think it was even a runway. Just well packed ground. The plane was shaking and shimmying. We picked up speed but were not lifting up as quickly as we should have because of the storm. We were running out of
I was riding shotgun which I switched out with Mom depending on whose turn it was to entertain Suzanne. Mom was surely saying prayers and covering my sister’s eyes. I could not close my eyes. We were going to hit the power lines or get taken out by the ferocious storm. I could see no other option.
And then just as we reached the end of the world, just like that we lifted up, cleared the lines, cleared the storm, and headed home. Dad knew how to commit. He really was a master pilot.
I’ve been a BlogSpot gal for eons. And before that LiveJournal was my go to witty chat spot.
But lately it seems that unless you have your very own .com WordPress is trending. And so I decided to make the jump. It looks so much classier than when I signed up a l-o-n-g time ago.
Somehow my old account was still around. Somewhat. I inadvertently got to it by a random path. No sign-in needed. But then when I wandered off, after trying to add the cool social media widget and failing miserably, I could not get back. My password was wrong. My email for recovery was wrong. My older email was wrong. Wrong. I may not remember every password but I do know my email addresses.
More than one way to skin a cat. I scrolled through my history and went in the back door. But seriously I need to get a better system.
Or back to BlogSpot for my two faithful readers.