Kirsta’s birth story, like all others, has a uniqueness that never grows old for me. She was my first. My learner baby. And she has been my soul mate. I have been richly blessed. So, here is her story, the one I keep in my heart and know, better than she does.
Once upon a time, I fell in love – with the idea of marriage. I never really dreamed of having children one day although I suppose I thought that was inevitable. I dreamt of who my husband would be, if I’d met him already and what he would do for a living. I dreamt of being someone’s wife, Mrs. So and So.
Then I fell in love with Kirsta’s father and quickly assessed that our relationship was going well enough to end up in marriage one day. We became intimate and I assumed that, since I was a “good girl”, and had never pushed the limits in any category, I could not get pregnant. At least not out of wedlock. Hence, it never occurred to me, strange as it may seem, that I might need to be careful. Early signs of pregnancy went unnoticed because I was so deeply in denial.
When we did learn that we were going to have a baby, we were anything but excited. Besides an initial reaction on my part to contemplate suicide, her father and I discussed adoption and abortion in those first hours, but not marriage. Eventually, however, we did decide to do the “honorable” thing, and, after a nice, albeit hasty wedding, we honeymooned despite the fact that I was bleeding and was told that I had a 50-50 chance of losing the baby. I had no particular attachment to it and took no special care of my pregnancy at that point as evidenced by riding roller coasters at King’s Island!