How many times has that little belief bitten me in the butt? Let's just say it has been numerous and mostly, I get proven wrong. I think God gets enjoyment out of showing me who's boss. He does have the right.The bets were on. The laughter was numerous. Oh so many women looked at me that last week in September and said, "Oh honey. You're never going to make it to Saturday."
I'd come home and look at Beloved Hubby and say, "Do you know how many people insist on telling me I'm not going to make it to Parade Day? I've already talked to Little Man. He knows he has to wait." And we'd laugh.
We're still laughing.
In reality, planning the biggest event in Mitchell, also known as the Persimmon Festival, is one of those advance things. Decisions are made a year in advance. Pre-planning makes it a success and my counterparts and I pre-planned and planned some more. So in reality, I knew if I gave birth that week, which was highly doubtful, the festival would still go off and go off without a hitch.
That planning came in handy. Contractions started Thursday night and continued through Friday morning. By 1 o'clock Friday afternoon, I couldn't deny what was becoming obvious and I called my doctor. He advised me to go to the hospital, and at 12:45 a.m., on Parade Day, Little Man arrived.
We were no longer thinking about the festival.
He arrived healthy and happy. He weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce, and was 19.5 inches long. He looks like his Daddy. The baby everyone in Mitchell was calling Puddin' made his Persimmon Festival debut. And we barely recognized the significance. It took my boss, the newspaperman, to call me because he wanted to write about the Festival Chairwoman having a baby on Parade Day. That's when I said, "Wow. I guess I did, didn't I?"
Things were quiet around the hospital on Saturday. Everyone was at the festival, after all. But the hospital was abuzz with the news. The nurses would come in and say, "So you're the festival chairman and had the baby during the festival?"
I no longer think of it. Time has passed and we've moved on. The festival, I am glad to say, is over for another year. From now on, I am happy to be the bystander and not the planner. My festival was a success in more ways than just one.
And next year, I won't be waddling down Main Street. Instead, I'll be the proud mom pushing the stroller who knows she controls very little.