I will never forget the day that I found out I was a mother. Amongst many details, I knew that my body had shown some changes in recent days. My formerly flat chest seemed to be blooming, and I was literally glowing heat from the inside out. I was afraid to hope, when the doctor drew blood from my arm (which was how they figured these things out, back then). It took days before they called and confirmed that I was carrying our first child. Emotions rushed all over me -- exhilaration and trepidation mixed with the unknown. Could I do this? Could we afford it? How could I, this artsy, fly-by-night semi-hippie have the gravitas needed to be consistent enough to keep a baby alive? How many of my pets lived, only because my Mama fed them? Fears assailed me, but I wanted to stand on the roof and shout with all the joy that came bursting out of my heart. I was of the generation of women who were told that our most important job was to be equal with men, get careers and become "somebody." Domestic bliss was a bad phrase. Mind you, that wasn't how my parents raised me, but that was the message all around us, at school, in advertising, in society. We weren't supposed to be wanting a baby that much. But it was my dream, after all the years of posturing.
I went to the library and took out books about babies, especially the ones with pictures of what they would look like in utero. I imagined our little bean in there, doing flips and growing tiny fingers and toes. One book in particular got checked out over and over (I eventually bought a copy, during my third pregnancy), because I wanted to keep looking at the changes that would be happening. I felt in my heart he was a boy. We never got a sonogram -- they weren't routine back then. He grew and grew, and I began wondering how I would be able to get him out. The doctors kept saying that he was measuring normal, and would probably weigh between 7-1/2 and 8 pounds, but I knew there was a whole lotta boy in there, and not of mild temperament. He pushed and shoved around like he was ready to stand up. That summer, it was horribly hot and we didn't have central air conditioning. We had an old, rickety window unit in the living room. To my shame, I took to making homemade ice cream (it was a banner year for Georgia peaches) and would sit in front of the A/C eating dishes of it to keep cool. When there were chances to get into water with anybody, I was there. I remember racing my Mama and her friend across the Powder Springs pool, a week late, and winning. These things matter.
In quiet moments, Ken and I would pray for our baby. We so wanted to raise him right and felt scared and unprepared. My vision for this child was that he would be a light in the darkness, bold and true. We decided to name him Jonathan Uriah, which means "God's gift and flame of God" (and he is just that). He came out flaming and yelling, all 10 pounds, 8 oz of him. Then came the flurry of three more huge babies in rapid succession, with us working on dilapidated houses in- between. During pregnancies, I had a "vision" for each one -- their personalities were strong and obvious, even before they were born. Daniel Josiah - "God is my judge and The Lord Heals" (that man is a wonderful juxtaposition of tough and sweet); Jesse Caleb - "God is real and God is faithful" (our youth pastor son who wholeheartedly loves Him); Elizabeth Hope - "God is my oath and Hope" (our devoted, steadfast, funny girl). God gives babies to us when we're young, otherwise we'd never make it. Even with my youth, I remember feeling so profoundly tired in those years that all I wanted for Mother's day was a night in a hotel room and sleeping as long as I wanted. Young mothers know what I'm talking about.
The days are long, but the years are fast, says the old saying, but it's true. In a flash, they were grown and having their own babies. In my youth, I thought of 40-year-olds as old, and grandparents as folks who rocked on the front porch and not much else. Little did I know that youth was fleeting and that there's a whole lot going on besides rocking chairs, then suddenly your babies are the 40-year-olds. I didn't count on not being able to climb scaffolding when I was 100 (it's probably because I quit doing it all along the way).
What I do know is this: not everyone gets to have babies, and not everyone wants them. My heart aches for those who want them but can't. Our family didn't have a big, fancy party for this holiday, but what I received is simply the best. Four conversations with my four children, some of them deep into the night. Four precious people, flawed and still perfect to me, who make the world a better place. Jewels, money, careers, pfffft. This is the stuff dreams are made of...
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