Seven years ago on the last day of November, the baby I was expecting was overdue. I was miserable and kept poking my belly announcing to the creature inside that I was issuing an eviction notice. Finally, on that last November day, I started feeling contractions. Once in a while, but not often enough to actually seem like labor.

That night, we went to the mall to walk around and time contractions. Later, I decided (way too early) that it was time to go to the hospital. They did keep me, and I labored all night. With the dawn, my desire for natural labor had comletely disappeared and I got an epidural. Which turned out to be a good thing, since until I got it I had not dilated any further from where I'd been when I checked into the hospital.

Then I labored and labored and labored. The day passed. Everything moved s-l-o-w-l-y. Finally, after 25 hours and three hours of pushing, The Boy was born at 10:20 p.m. on December 1. He'd managed to make it as hard for me to get him out as possible, being over nine pounds, facing up instead of down and holding his hand up to his face.

I became a mom. The authorities trusted me to bring home a tiny little human. I had very little idea what life would be like with a demanding, wailing creature around and now seven years and three more children around, I can hardly remember that time before children.

The Boy has grown and changed so much in seven years, that I can barely recognize the face of the baby I once cuddled in the lean, lanky boy. Usually I think I want to keep him and see what the years to come will bring.