It was a typical weekday morning, and I began the same old routine of the past several years. As I looked out the bay window of the breakfast room, I noticed that, except for a few cotton-like clouds, the sky was already awake, reflecting pastel shades of purple, pink and blue.

Gulping down a second cup of strongly caffeinated coffee, I thought about how nice it would be to wake up on my own whenever I wanted to. The alarm clock had gone off at its usual time this morning. Of course, we don't actually get up when we hear the alarm, because our lives revolve around the perpetual nine-minute snooze. My husband never hears the alarm. Each time that obnoxious sound resumes, I kick him or hit him in the back in an effort to get him out of the bed and into his morning routine. Sometimes he gets up, but most times it begins a never-ending cycle of alarm and snooze.

His coffee has to be just right. He likes Maxwell House Instant coffee with three sugars and one-quarter cup of whole milk added to it. As I deliver the lukewarm cup to his bedside and drag him out of the Pierre Cardin sheets, he complains because I let him sleep too long. I refuse to take the blame; after all, the alarm is on his side of the bed, not mine. His mother must have been a saint to put up with this all those years!

At 6:30 sharp, my husband leaves for work. A kiss and a hug are left for our now awakened and irritable children and then he is gone. I am lucky if I hear from him again until 6 or 7 o'clock in the evening. Sometimes I feel jealous that he actually gets to leave the house and other times I wish he could be home more often. The word "boss" translates into long hours.

"It's the company way."

"Yeah, right! " I've heard that before.

By 7:00 AM our three children are eating their usual at the table with The Rugrats blaring in the background. Angelica Pickles is particularly obnoxious this early in the morning. Brittany, an average 13 year old, eats two vanilla poptarts every morning. She doesn't like the edges, so she eats only the middle and leaves the rest for me. At five years of age, David has become a small version of his father, a creature of habit. He eats Cheerios with rice milk and a butter sandwich. Elizabeth, my two year old, loves peanut butter and strawberry jam, so every morning she eats a "P and J." When I was a kid, my mom fixed everyone the same thing. There weren't so many choices. Life was a lot easier then.

Although this day's routine was typical, the day felt very strange to me. I am usually very anal about planning things out and sticking to a schedule. I detest confusion and disorder so much that I religiously maintain my pocketbook-sized daytimer. Today felt different. For weeks now, I had ignored the plaguing headaches and stomach upset; however, I couldn't any longer. The night before had been intolerable. Unfortunately the school year was over, so I sent the kids to my mother's house and called my doctor to beg for a last minute appointment.

After spending just a few minutes in the waiting room, I realized that I was last in what appeared to be the largest crowd ever waiting to see my doctor. I glanced around the room. There were all kinds of women waiting, all with two things in common--swollen bellies and swollen ankles. The fact that it was Dr. Joe's obstetric day didn't bother me, but the long wait did.

Great! A ruined afternoon!

Thumbing through a People Magazine caused my mind to wander. The pages were filled with pictures and articles of people like Madonna, Demi Moore and Nichole Kidman.

Wow, they look really great to be mothers. How'd they get so lucky? What's made them such successes? What do I want to do with my life? Am I successful? The questions kept popping in and out of my tired head.

My thoughts took me back, flashing through bits of my childhood years. All at once I was five years old again: Long, brown hair, combed perfectly into place; a dainty red and white dress trimmed with eyelet and red flowers; black patent leather shoes with white lacy socks; standing in front of a very large crowd of people. It was my turn to sing. It was not my first time performing. The kitchen table had been my "stage" since I could stand. I'd memorized all the songs because daddy was meticulous in his teaching. I would sing anywhere and had done so on several occasions, except here, in church in front of all these people. My daddy, who was the Music Minister at this church, proceeded now to introduce me. During his lengthy speech, I had time to think about what I was going to do.

As I studied the audience, it seemed that their number multiplied. I could not recognize their faces, and their smiles transformed into frowns. The pit of my stomach rose into the back of my throat. Daddy finally finished and walked over to the piano. We had rehearsed this song a thousand times before. I knew it forwards and backwards, but as the familiar tune began, not one word would come out of my mouth. My mind was blank. Salty tears began to flow more rapidly than I could wipe them away. I saw my mother's smile sink down below the pew where she so impatiently sat. I could feel my father's impassioned frustration as he stopped playing the piano. I don't think I heard him walk over to me, but I felt his strong arm slip around my waist as he pulled me close to him.

My fears were relieved when he whispered in my ear, "Honey, it's okay, I am here. I'll sing it with you."

My dad, my teacher, my mentor and my very best friend was there to fix everything. We sang together as we had many times before. As his voice purposely grew softer and weaker, mine grew louder and stronger. By the start of the second verse, I was singing alone, with all the passion a five year old possesses. My fear had been replaced by sheer boldness. The huge stage transformed into Mom's kitchen table, while her smile arose from the dead space beneath the pew. The audience at once became my friends again, and my dad's frustration must have turned into pure pride. It was this love and gentle instruction that I would thrive on during the rest of my childhood into my early teens. It was this first moment of true success that encouraged my dreams of stardom.

Suddenly, I was again in the year 2000.

Did they just call my name?

A quick glance at my watch revealed that I had been waiting there an hour and I was only on page eight of People Magazine.

Yes, I believe that was my name.

As I approached the nurses' station, I realized that they were only calling me for the nasty preliminaries that usually proceeded the doctor's appearance--the urinalysis cup, the blood pressure check, the finger prick, the weight check and the great question:

"What seems to be the problem today?"

I know that I explained the problem in detail when I called in and begged for an appointment. Why do I have to go through all this again? Write it down this time!

After my lengthy and descriptive explanation, I was sent back into the waiting room for a few more minutes.

As the afternoon nudged slowly forward, I determined that doctors should keep bankers' hours. It was now 4:30 PM. Dr. Joe should be out on the golf course, teeing off for the twighlight round. I should be home with my typical American family, cooking spaghetti and meatballs and watching Angry Beavers or some other ludicrous Nickelodeon cartoon.

"What seems to be the problem today?"

The question spun round and round in my tired mind as I drifted back into a not so fond memory. I had heard that question many times before, more times than I can comprehend. Several doctors and specialists sought the answer to the great question. I was a young divorced mom, working full time and attending evening classes. After several trips to the hospital, weekly visits to various doctors, and test after miserable test, this day I would discover the answer to the great question.

I waited impatiently by the telephone. I had lost 20 pounds and liquid diets were becoming the norm. I was weary from the sickness and the stress of the doctors' educated guessing. When the phone finally rang, it was my internist's familiar voice. Mom sat beside me, just as always, holding my hand, praying as she unknowingly helped me through the difficulty of the conversation. Since my father's untimely death, my mother had transformed into my best friend.

"Acute Crohn's Disease" was the diagnosis. The internist explained that surgery was the only chance I had to live a less than normal life. I would always have this chronic illness, but with the surgery and daily medication, there was a good chance for remission.

I remember the panic and self pity that overwhelmed me. Then the anger followed. I'd never been sick! I was too young to get something like this! It was not fair! The following year would prove to be the most miserable of my life. It culminated with two months in the hospital, a horrific abdominal surgery, and the knowledge that this condition could plague me forever.

"Ms. Daniels to the back please!"

Finally, they had called me. As I walked toward the back, Karen was standing there with her fists on her hips, shaking her head. She looked like a doctor standing there wearing her scrubs and white lab coat. Karen and I had become my friends through two recent pregnancies and deliveries.

"Your preliminaries don't look so good; we need to investigate more."

She asked several familiar questions. "What have you eaten today? When was your last checkup? How long have you felt sick? Any fever? Nausea or vomiting? Let's do another urinalysis. Might be a kidney or gall bladder problem. When was your last period? Any chance you might be pregnant?"

"How absurd!" There was absolutely no way I could be pregnant. I'd been taking my pills religiously since I weaned Elizabeth.

"We'll make sure before we prescribe any medication," Karen blurted.

Off I went to wait again, this time in the exam room. I changed into a scratchy robe and sat on a cold exam table. There I was, vulnerable, scared, and naked. I recalled the words that I'd heard so many times before: Don't be worried, God has a plan. Well, I wish He'd let me in on His plans sometimes.

I waited. Just sitting there, unproductive and motionless, made me nervous. Great, another medical condition I can't control!

Reality struck as I heard a familiar voice: "Well, it is not your kidneys and definitely not your gall bladder."

At once I felt relief, but seconds later Karen pulled a small white box from her lab coat pocket. The familiarity of the object sent bolts of panic down my spine. She handed it to me with a sad smile on her face. She needed to say nothing. I knew immediately what was wrong with me. A plus sign, a positive, a thin red line--they all meant the same thing; I was pregnant AGAIN!

I drove up and down the azalea-lined streets of town, wondering what I was going to do. I had not planned this; in fact, Dave and I planned against having more children. I feared his reaction to this news, and I was not sure how to tell him. Call him at work or take him to lunch? Send him an Email or a telegram? Let the kids tell him or wait till I need money for maternity clothes? Whatever means I chose to give him this potentially devastating news, it would not be easy. I decided to write him a letter instead of facing him directly. Carefully, I wrote the message of impending fatherhood on a sentimental card that I bought from Betsy's Hallmark. It explained that, although I had faithfully taken my pills, God must have another plan.

That's great... blame it on God!

I continued to rationalize that four children would not be any more difficult to raise than three, and we were lucky that I wasn't diagnosed with cancer. The eternal optimist! Surely he would be happy, or at least, civil.

I left the card in his car where he would see it the next morning as he left for work. I halfway expected a phone call but it never came. No call, no Email, no flowers or balloons. Nothing. Must be a busy day.

That evening I cooked a sirloin tip roast with baby carrots and red potatoes, white rice, broccoli casserole and blueberry muffins--not only a Southern favorite, but Dave's favorite too. For dessert, I made brownie bottom pie, which is a concoction that Dave and I copied from our favorite restaurant. He was sure to be pleased. Brittany helped me set an elegant table where we, as a family, could excitedly discuss our new addition.

Seven o'clock came and went very quickly. The candles we lit to add to the elegance burned down to nothing as the dinner grew cold. At eight, I fed my starving children and shortly thereafter put them to bed. It was exactly ten forty-eight when the door finally creaked open. The television blared as Tony Soprano shouted obscenities at one of his henchmen. The house was dark as Dave entered, so I could not see his face. He did not notice my tears as he barely spoke and walked past me to our bedroom. I dared not follow.

About a quarter past twelve, he emerged and went into the kitchen. Instead of eating the fabulous but cold dinner waiting in the microwave, he fixed a bowl of David's Cheerios and gulped them down. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared.

"Goodnight. I'm really tired. Love you," were his only words as he pecked my cheek.

I was devastated.

It wasn't until my sixth month that I think Dave resigned himself to having another child. His mind changed suddenly, as suddenly as the bleeding started. I had to call him at work to tell him the news, and I was in bed when he arrived home. Without a word, he scooped me up and carried me to the car. I sensed his fear, and he knew my pain. By this time I wanted to be a mother again, and I wanted him to be happy about this baby.

The ride to the doctor was unnerving. My husband's face was pale, and dark circles formed below his beautiful but bloodshot hazel eyes. He'd been crying. He always projects a hard demeanor, but inside there's a soft heart. I knew that I had to remain strong.

As we walked into the cold office, Dave pulled the brim of his Georgia Tech cap over his eyes so that no one would notice the redness. We didn't have to wait. Karen was ready and led us directly to the exam room. The usual exchange of words was useless. She placed the heart monitor on my protruding stomach, and it made some strange noises as she moved it around to find the heartbeat. The room was quiet except for the loud rhythm of ventricles working twice their usual speed. Suddenly, we heard it, a faint but fast pattern of our tiny baby's heart.

"Thank God!" Dave said as his worried exterior softened.

Remarkably, the ultrasound results were positive, showing no difficulties with the baby. Dr. Joe cautioned me to avoid stress and to take it easy. The next few days my doting family treated me like royalty. Dave took a few days off from work to stay home and head up the royal brigade. Two weeks later I returned to a regular routine. I was a mother again.

December brought new challenges. Dave accepted a new position that kept him at the office most of the time, so I had to prepare for the holidays alone. Waddling in and out of department stores and straggling down toy isles must have been a hilarious site. I'd gained 50 pounds so far. We had all hoped that the baby would come during the holidays, but Christmas came and the New Year passed uneventfully.

On January 10th, my water broke. Dave was at work and said he'd meet me at the hospital. Because the contractions were not very strong, Dr. Joe ordered Pitocin, a drug used to induce labor. As the medicine entered my body through the tiny tube attached to my hand, I began to feel the familiar pain. Both fear and relief came with the first full blown contraction.

"We are having this baby tonight!" Dr. Joe announced. He rubbed his icy hands together to warm them and patted Dave on the back. "Let's get busy!"

Just like men. Who's the one working here?

All the anxiety, waiting, and frustration of the past few months came down to this moment. I felt relieved, exhilarated, and prepared for a fight. Dave had a smile on his charming face and a change in his heart. In our minds, we knew our baby boy already. We knew Who sent him to us. We didn't know where the baby would sleep or what his name would be. We didn't know what he would look like or whether we'd be able to afford his college tuition. He was ours none the less and on the way.

"I'm sorry I've been so distant," Dave said as the contraction eased. "Do you need something for pain?"

"No, I'm alright."

"I want this baby boy as much as you do. I was wrong. Please forgive me!"

"It's okay. I don't hate you anymore," I said jokingly.

Dave pressed a cool, wet washcloth to my forehead and fed me a spoonful of ice. He took a small piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket.

"I've been thinking of names. Can I name him?"

I nodded as the tightening began again. Pain flooded my body as the contraction reached its peak.

"Concentrate on me and breathe!" He grabbed my hand and I squeezed it hard.

As I filled my lungs with the crisp hospital air, I wished that I was on the peak of a snowy mountain, breathing in the icy air around me, waiting for the perfect moment to push off, skiing down the dangerous slope. Reality snapped me back into the hospital room as a pain shot through my belly once again. But this pain was different, excruciating. Something felt terribly wrong.

"Hold on honey, breathe!" I heard Dave say as the nurses began scurrying about the room. One of them paged my doctor and another was barking orders.

"What is it? Is the baby alright?" he asked, but there was no answer.

"Sir, could you please step outside?" The nurse's question sounded like a demand.

"No, I'm not leaving and you can't make me!"

"Then stand right there!"

Obediently he moved as a large, mean-looking nurse pointed to the place behind the head of the bed.

Pain shook my body once again. Something was definitely wrong.

"He should be here by now!" shouted one of the nurses.

The baby? The doctor? I couldn't reason.

They covered my face with a mask and told me to breathe deeply. The oxygen was supposed to help, but it burned as it entered my weary lungs. The pain was getting stronger.

Dr. Joe finally arrived, scrubs and mask intact. After a very brief examination, he explained that the baby's head was turned the wrong way and stuck in the birth canal.

"We will try to turn him around. Don't worry, this happens alot," he said reassuringly.

The contractions kept coming, and with each one the nurses would shout to breathe and not push. I huffed and puffed so fast that I almost fainted. Riddled with agony and fear I began sobbing. I turned to look at Dave as he stroked my hair. He wiped his eyes with his free hand. I could barely hear him as he prayed.

"OK, you can push now."

I felt the small head drop into my pelvis, and immediately the pressure became fierce. This was it and it was almost over. As I continued pushing, Dr. Joe delivered the baby's head. All I could see was the black curly hair that covered his tiny head.

"Stop pushing!"

Fear gripped me again as I realized that the baby was gray. Dave's face went blank as I looked to him for comfort. The doctor began shouting at the nurses. I don't even remember what was said. A large gray cord was wrapped around my baby's neck. As Joe carefully untangled my limp child, emptiness filled my soul. This child had to survive! We had been through too much! As the doctor continued to work, the cord fell from around my baby's neck.

"Breathe! Breathe!" Dave was crying.

Why is this happening?

I couldn't take much more. The physical pain was gone and a more intense, mental pain took over. I was hollow inside and my heart was gone.

The doctor worked feverishly, suctioning the fluid from my baby's lungs. "Breathe! Breathe!"

It was the longest few moments of our lives.

As the nurses and doctor continued to work on my son, God answered my husband's prayer. The fragile gray body slowly began to turn colors of pink and purple as the clean oxygen entered his lungs. Loud piercing cries began to fill the room, and his once listless body began to wriggle as the cold air chilled his wet, new skin. We were all crying and laughing at the same time.

Seven pounds, fourteen ounces, twenty-two inches long and Dave named him Nicholas, which means victory. He was perfectly healthy with no physical problems. He had clear pink skin, beautiful blue eyes, and dark brown hair.

Through the whole ordeal I learned many valuable lessons. I realized that it was okay to just be someone's mother. It is the most important job in the world. I also learned that four healthy children are part of my success and that fame is merely vanity. I am a famous role model for my kids, and that's enough for me.

"I made a mistake," Dave admitted the night we brought Nicholas home. "I am so glad he's here! I love you and I shouldn't have..."

I stopped him short and pointed into the bassinet. I put one finger over my mouth and wrapped the other arm around Dave's waist.

"Sh-h-h-h, he's asleep."