Five Days of George Cont.

I had Georgia by c-section on a Monday and went home that Wednesday. This was back in 1989, when they still made you dance the jitterbug within hours of surgery, without the benefit of plug-in pain meds. I'd made the huge mistake of walking around with Georgiababy in the hall, proving my superhuman resilience, so they discharged me with a Motrin prescription so strong I could have pulled my own teeth. No one knew I was allergic, so my first dose landed me in the emergency room around 3 a.m., with eyes swollen big as golf balls. Nothing like being blind on a stretcher in the hall of an overcrowded ER, with milk-engorged breasts and staples in your gut. Yet all I could think about was the fact that my husband was sitting in the waiting room with my tiny infant, where she was probably being exposed to Ebola and Smallpox. We were out of there several hours later, though, safe and sound, and my (ex)husband felt well enough to leave me in Atlanta with the baby so he could go to the Masters tournament in Augusta for the rest of the week. Good times.

This is one of my favorite pictures. I wish I could remember what we were looking at.