Verguenza

The day after Isabella of Castile gave birth to Katharine of Aragon in a temporary field camp, she passed her soft, mewling babe off to a wet nurse, mounted her steed and rode off with Ferdinand to continue the fight against the Moors (crimson velvet gown flapping in the wind, I imagine). A week after I gave birth to Jude, I waddled gingerly around our cul de sac, hanging dolorously on Mike's arm, stepping wide in my blue flannel pajama pants and Mike's oversized, holey Beatles shirt. Nothing like a fiery Spanish queen to put you to shame.

Despite my slightly longer recovery, replete with several birth "souveniors" (which did not include puerperal fever, like most of Isabella's contemporaries, gladly) today my midwife pushed and prodded and declared me whole. Although I have no immediate plans to mount a trusty steed or zealously join any kind of military campaign, I feel I can at least conquer my cul de sac with enthusiasm (minus the velvet gown, but only because of the heat) and maybe even push this ole' bessie to strolling boldly around the block, wee babe in tow, for no other reason than to feel this body move again.