Supposed to....

I was supposed to be born in June.

My original due date was somewhere in the middle of June.  I, being shy and stubborn, decided that I was not going to be a June baby.  I wanted July.  My mother was large and in charge by the time I made my arrival.  I was nearly a month late and it was hot.  She ate lots of Popsicles.  Popsicles that my father had to go buy because once she put the car seat back far enough to squeeze us both in, her feet wouldn't reach the pedals.  There was no AC.

I was also supposed to be a boy.

Everyone said so.  The nurse who "had never been wrong in 15 years" was convinced I was a boy.  During  our stress tests, my heart rate was high, indicating I was a boy.  While I was being delivered, the doctor said "Look at the shoulders on this kid!  He's going to be a football player!"

Uh....not quite.

My mother's labor began early in the morning.  She got out of bed and with a huge, glorious gush, her water broke.  (Her water? My water?  The water.)  It has been described to me every year for the last 33 years as similar to Old Faithful.  My dad jumped out of bed, grabbed the trash can, and shoved it under my mother.   As her labor progressed they gathered some little boy things (I'm supposed to be a football player, remember?) and then headed to the hospital.
This is when things went downhill.

I was supposed to fit through the exit.

I got stuck.  I was big, and I have always had problems predicting measurements by sight. See how some things are always part of you?  Somewhere in this story my poor mother was hurting badly and she received a "spinal" which I am pretty sure is how you say Epidural in the 70's.  She pushed and pushed and there was no luck.  Finally, the doctor got his forceps and proceded to jerk me out.  With his forceps smashing my sweet little face, he pulled.  And my mother slid down the table.  The nurses on either side grabbed her under the arms and pulled her back up.  And back and forth she went.  All the while the doctor was pulling on my HEAD.  My mom does not do well under such painful circumstances and her memory is foggy about how long this tug of war went on for.  The doctor finally said "I'll try one last time.  If HE doesn't come, then we will have to take him c-section."  The nurses climbed up onto the table WITH my mother and held her in place.  The doctor pulled one last time and delivered my head.  As he was delivering my shoulders the football comment was made.  Seconds later he exclaimed:

"It's a GIRL!!!  She's going to be the Queen of the Nursery!!"

Oh, and I was!

I weighed in at a whopping 10 lbs.  My face was red and swollen.  Plus I was fat.  I had jet black crazy-do hair that stuck up all over.  My face was so swollen that I was unable to fully open my eyes.  My mom was sure they were very dark.  Black even.  I looked like an Indian baby.

Bubba watching over me already..  2 weeks old

2 days old

She was not pleased with me.  In fact, she was not even interested for a few minutes.  So much for Spencer Ross Western.  Glory be, I became Jenalee Western!  Queen of the Nursery! 

Two weeks later my father, after witnessing this momentous occasion, had a vasectomy.

It is noteworthy to include that BESIDES my birth, I have brought nothing but sunshine to my mother.  I was her best baby.  Hardly ever cried, laid down and went to sleep when placed in my crib, and loved her more than any other child.  My black hair fell out and was replaced with blond.  My eyes lightened up to a most pleasant brown.  (I am my father's only brown eyed child.)  I still have that forceps scar on my cheek.  And I kept the stubbornness.

It was said that had it been 50 years earlier, my mom and I would have both died. 

All hail to the technological advances of 1978!

And my mother too.

Thanks for enduring it all, mom.  I love you!