One thing that will always remain the same, though, is the stories. Every mother present--young or old--feels obligated to recount her own birthing experience, to advise on the pros and cons of delivery methods and medications, and to highlight her struggles with pregnancy and with the amazing, squalling infant that found its way into her world. Older mothers speak with knowing tones about the trials of adolescence. When all the stories are told and all advice given, the shower is over.
Rachel's shower was true to form. She has lovely, sophisticated and passionate friends who showered her with generous and creative and useful gifts. They also showered her with their stories, and I can't help but feel that these were the most valuable gifts--these stories that help prepare a young and inexperienced mother for the unknown, stories that link them all together, that connect them with women from generations back to generations forward.
I probably shouldn't have told Rachel, however, that when I went into labor with her, my husband was thousands of miles away, that the back labor was so intense that I would bang my head against the bed railings to take my mind off the pain, and that when I told the delivery room nurse that I didn't want an epidural, she said, "Well, you're on your own then!"
But reward follows pain. The round, red little face with dark and empty eyes and sleek black hair was finally placed into my arms, and pain and discomfort receded. It's just difficult to realize that time has fast-forwarded so quickly, and that the infant I held in my arms is now getting ready to go through that same process. As did my mother before me. And her mother before her....
There is a long line of us, stretching back in unbroken succession to Eve. Who didn't have electric bottle warmers or disposable nappies, but who must have had her own stories to pass down to her daughters.
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