8 years.

making beet ravioli for Sunday dinner

When I was 14, I was in a very serious car accident.  The doctors "gave" me a 50/50 chance.  The suburban rolled and landed on top of my pelvis, and I didn't know the serious matter of my situation until I looked up and saw a circle of people bowing their heads down at me.  They were made to disperse and kneeling by me, on the icy ground was my mother.  I held up my hands for her to see that they were okay.  I could still play the harp.  I could still do those things with my hands that brought me so much enjoyment.  My hands were fine.  Just one small cut on my thumb.  While waiting for an ambulance, I asked her if I would still be able to have kids. I expected her to know that vital piece of information, as though she had gone to medical school and could, by glancing at the situation, conclude the outcome.

The outcome was a long road.  Multiple breaks to my pelvis, a metal plate and screws fastened to keep everything in place, crushed nerves tended to by an acupuncturist, physical therapy in a giant box of water and a diligent mother always in search of something else to aid in my recovery.  I am not symmetrical, but I have born children. 5 daughters. And I have hands that now care for them.  I have changed diapers for 8 years now.  {really? has it been that long?}  Spoonfed, bathed, dressed, sewn little dresses, brushed hair, tied bows, played peek-a-boo, buckled, carried, patted, soothed, and held for 8 years.  I do{n't} look forward to the day when these won't be my normalcy.  It will be all too soon when my hands will be wringing and waiting for a daughter to walk through the door instead of doing and tending to her needs.  So, I change diaper after diaper with more contentment.  I linger just a bit longer before I lay her down for the night, intent on remembering every minute detail of our exchange.