Thirty years ago this coming Sunday, I gave birth to a son. Our only son, in fact. He is sandwiched in between three marvelous sisters, and he filled that spot quite well. In fact, people often comment on his name — Joe — in the middle of all those “itty” sisters. (Felicity, Serenity, Charity). Someone once said we should have kept the theme by naming him Masculinity.

I was unprepared for the emotions that hit me when Joseph was born. It felt like an ancient affirmation built into womanhood through the ages. I had produced an heir. My life was complete.

The Women’s Liberation Movement was at high peak in those days, so I tried not to take myself too seriously. I mean, childbirth was a miracle every time, not just when a son was born. And I had lots of other important roles besides motherhood. (I couldn’t think of any, but I tried to convince myself it was true.)

Actually, I didn’t try very hard. Instead, I sat in my hospital bed for hours and just reveled in the knowledge of his existence. My friend Judy finally put words to the emotions. She told me, “After our son was born, I just sat around and smiled at myself for two weeks.”

It isn’t politically correct. And it doesn’t take anything away from the deep joy I felt each time a daughter was born. Yet, it is still the truth. I smiled for weeks, too.

What’s more,  I’m still smiling.