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My husband has always wanted to take our kids backcountry camping, so last summer, he planned a trip.Our kids were 17, 15, 13 and 10 at the time, busy with summer camps and jobs, so the only days we all had free overlapped with our twentieth wedding anniversary.Romantic notions were set aside as I threw up day and night for five months straight.I wore cotton maternity dresses that fit like burlap sacks.A lactation consultant was summoned, but she gave up after an hour. My husband put the do-not-disturb sign on the door and told me this was a mechanical problem.He held the baby in position against my breast, and right away, our son latched on and started to nurse.His feelings were strong, he told me later, but he’d wanted to be sure. He didn’t lavish attention upon me like other boyfriends had, and this took some getting used to.He didn’t care if I wore make-up, or if I dressed up or wore lingerie.

Our four kids worked together to pitch their tent, and we pitched ours. When the hail stopped, I unzipped the tent to start dinner, and stepped into a puddle a foot deep.

We were moved from Labor and Delivery into the Maternity Ward, and a nurse announced it was time to breastfeed.

But my son had his tongue up on the roof of his mouth, and he wouldn’t latch on.

I remember telling my mother about the party; when she asked me if he could be the one. I invited him to join my family reunion in Hawaii at Thanksgiving. Everyone in the family loved him, and so did I, by then, but something told me I should hold off telling him so until he told me, first.

He wasn’t the kind of man to rush into wild romantic gestures and proclamations.

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