A DIY Memoir

According to my (maternal) grandmother, she found out my mom was pregnant when she stopped having her period.

Grandma would “check” by monitoring supplies for feminine hygiene products and by noting the amount of stained underwear in the laundry.

If I remember right, she started showing at 4 months.

Grandma tried to “naturally abort” the pregnancy using various methods of “natural remedies” from old wives tales. Obviously that didn’t work.

Grandma and Grandpa tried rationing her food, hoping if they prevented her from receiving sufficient nutrients that she would lose the baby. Obviously that didn’t work.

It gets worse.

Then, they used physical methods. Grandma punched her in the stomach multiple times. Not all at once. Randomly. Obviously that didn’t work.

When the punching didn’t work, Grandma tried kicking. Then shoving her to the ground. That didn’t work either.

Damn, I hung on!

I think they gave up when she was 8 month.

The morning I was born my mom got up because of labour pains. I think it was 4am. Grandma wasn’t happy, of course.

Grandma ran to get the neighbor, who was a relative that supposedly knew how to handle labour and delivery, but she was of no help. Grandma said that woman was like a chicken with her head cut off.

When it was time to push, my mom didn’t want to push. She got out of bed, but they pushed her down back on to the bed. Grandma threatened her with a beating if she she didn’t push.

Hm. What an odd pregnancy and delivery.

And that was that. I was born my uncle’s bed, which he never let me forget. They called the ambulance, the paramedics checked me out and took me to the hospital.

I was a premie with a large spleen, and stayed in the hospital for a few days.

My name was given to me by my maternal grandfather. I’m named after a singer. Heaven knows which one. The only singer I’ve heard of with my name is a country singer.

I like to be called (censored) or (my husband)’s boss.