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5. Saturday, July 9th

The next morning I enjoyed a visit from my mother in law; Jonathan, our new (and only) full time employee; and my neighbor and a new friend Carol.
Carol is a beautiful young woman, a mother of four and a part time real estate agent, who lives only a few houses down from us. I liked her the moment I met her. She has this natural beauty that those of us who can’t leave the house without make up on can really appreciate; she has amazing and inspiring faith; and her parenting style is the one I'm still trying to learn - filled with patience and the Montessouri-like self-disciplining.

Carol brought a croissant, which I greedily took and ate with my coffee, completely ignoring the eggbeaters and microwave bacon strips the nurse brought for me. We chatted for a while, I told them all about the birth, about how Blais finally got his name. We laughed and had a good time.
“I read that in some of California’s hospitals they offer a tummy tuck during C-sections”, Carol said
“Really?” I gasped. For a tiny, tiny moment I missed California. Not that I would get the tummy tuck, I just kind of like how weird and extreme the place is. I have a friend in California who would always remind me that Los Angeles was for the bravest and the strongest - who else would be able to make it through the Death Valley in a horse and buggy only to settle in a place with no natural source of water, at the edge of Pacific Ocean (and who named it "Pacific" anyway? Did they know the meaning of the word?)

The day seemed long. Long in a way that I liked. Long, meaning I had time to do nothing, to take slow walks, to look at my baby Blais, to talk to Dante and to hold Evan in my arms. Long, meaning I didn’t have to work, or clean, or go shopping. I was allowed to let the time go slowly without rushing it. Long, because I was also waiting for my mother to arrive from Croatia.

Matthew, his dad and the boys went to pick her up at the airport. Her flight from New York was delayed two hours, so by the time she came over to the hospital it was close to midnight. She looked great. Wearing blue jeans that fit her perfectly and an orange sweater, my mother had a look that would make a 20 year-old girl jealous. Her hair and make up all done, she was radiating with self-confidence and the kind of positive energy I needed. I love to see my mother look and feel good and she knows it. She makes sure she looks her best every time she arrives -even after her 15-hour trip from Zagreb.

We talked till late that night. She wanted to hold baby Blais, she told me all about Dante and Evan recognizing her at the airport and how much Dante was disappointed when she dropped him off at the house and told him she was going over to the hospital.  

My mother. Everything I needed to know, I should have learned from her. I was stubborn though; I always thought I knew better. My mother, suffered so much, lived most of her life in a society that didn’t recognize her hard and honest work. A woman whose marriage failed after 27 years of trying. A woman who sacrificed her hopes and dreams and gave herself completely to her two daughters. My mother, still looking beautiful after all the hardships. Still smiling her big, happy smile.

I was perfectly content. Holding baby Blais in my hands, sleeping next to my Mama. I belonged to the same un-official, but ancient club of mothers (who will never stop worrying - even long after their sons and daughters are off to college) and it made me feel safe and secure. I can do it. Like my Mama has done.

Life was good and I was grateful to God for every moment of it.

The next day, we thanked the nurses, said our Goodbyes to the doctors and went to our new home in Clfton, where a new chapter of our lives would unfold.

My mother with my son.