The Epiphany of My Maternity

   It’s hard to believe that there was a time in my life when I had no contact with children. I would tell anyone who would listen that I would never have children. I would have goldfish instead. I conceived this plan in my head to keep conception from occurring in other parts of my body. My pregnancy would last as long as it took for me to get to the pet store. In my youth, babies represented a loss of freedom and a drastic change in lifestyle. I had no intention of relinquishing all the trappings of high school success (Cheerleading, dances, proms, graduation, college) to take care of a baby. Fear of that kind of loss was the best birth control my parents could prescribe. When I was a teenager I wouldn’t hold a baby for fear that someone would think that I was its unwed, teenaged mother. Babies seemed to be uncomfortable in my arms, and the feeling was mutual. The thought of changing a smelly, poopy diaper on a consistent basis was more than I could bear. Babysitting was never in my adolescent career path.

“I don’t do children” was my battle cry and response to all matters concerning young humans. I would often say, “Put that child out of its misery!” When I heard the spine-tingling wail of a screaming waif. This wailing often occurred at church when I was trying to worship in quiet contemplation or at my job, (At the Welfare Office) where I saw the result of biological Russian roulette and sexual folly. I was a firm believer that children should be seen and not heard. The gap between me and babies began to close in 1985 when friends from college started having babies. I was content to pushing the baby in the stroller hoping that no one would assume that I was its mother. In 1990, one of my oldest friends needed someone to babysit her four-month-old daughter. It was an extreme emergency, and I was the only person available. I was shown how to change a diaper without the benefit of hands-on experience. For whatever reason, I was trying to reach age thirty without ever changing a diaper. I made it to age twenty-six approaching age twenty-seven. This event occurred on the day before Labor Day, 1990. The babysitting and diapering experience was not as traumatic as I had envisioned. The baby and I survived. I did the same with her brother two years later.

My oldest niece was born in 1993; the first baby in our family in almost twenty-five years! I was approaching age thirty (With four diaper changes to my credit). I held this child with much trepidation as she slept undisturbed in my arms. My sister would literally throw her in my arms, so I had to be prepared. When I changed her diaper, I had an audience as though I was a doctor in a medical school auditorium performing a delicate surgery on a patient. My family assumed that I knew nothing of babies, given my prior history (Little did they know). When my niece was about a year old, she would see me, frown up her face scream, and run away from me in abject terror. One look would trigger this tirade. I would say to her, “I’m not looking at you!” She wouldn’t let me get near her, but she would eat the food off my plate, and snatch the French fries out of my hands if I gave her half the chance. This went on until she was three years old, and I was expecting my first child. My niece who is now 28 years old and I are the best of friends now.

Life extended beyond my body in May 1996, when I delivered a healthy baby girl. My overflowing hormones and adrenaline gave me a false sense of confidence that I could handle all that motherhood was going to throw at me, while I was in the hospital. The reality came crashing down when I found myself marching up the hill from our apartment, enroute to the supermarket to get formula for the baby, less than two hours after I came home from the hospital. For the first three weeks with my new baby, I functioned in a sleep deprived haze. Eating was no longer a priority. Regaining lost sleep was my main goal. 

My baby was the nocturnal ying to my diurnal yang. Nothing would lull her to sleep. I tried tapes of running water, white noise, and dolphins, all to no avail. I would feed her and feed her until the breast milk or formula would leak from the sides of her mouth. Her afternoon power naps would fuel her nocturnal strength and confound my ability to cope. Friends and family would say, “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” How can that happen when I still have a household to run, and my circadian rhythms commanded me to sleep at night? I still haven’t figured that out yet. I came to realize that there is no peace like the silence of a slumbering babe. Once the haze lifted, I was able to see my baby in a new light. I took delight in looking upon her angelic face, amazed by her beauty, her drooling, toothless smile, and watching her tongue wave like a flag when she was in full wail. When she would yawn, I would smell her breath to inhale her innocence. Infancy is the only time when people willingly smell the breath and kiss the feet of another person.

When I returned to work from a much too short maternity leave, especially since I was just getting the hang of motherhood at home; it took some adjusting to my schedule because I had to allow time for getting the baby ready and to the 

daycare before I could go to work. No more just rolling out of the bed, getting bathed, dressed, and out of the door by the skin of my teeth!

My outlook on babies had changed in those few months. A 180-degree change, more profound than scrooge on Christmas Day. Now, I look forward to seeing babies (especially newborns) in the office. I consider it a perk of my job to hold the babies. I tell people that holding a baby is like looking into the face of God, because this is the closest we get to see innocence this side of Heaven. Seeing babies brings a smile to my face and a warmth to my heart, completely opposite from the disdain I displayed in the past. Having another daughter enabled me to again experience the joy of newborn innocence with a deeper appreciation. Every now and then I replay the moment of childbirth in my mind, the only way I can keep my children from growing up.

    I see things differently now. I notice the looks and expressions of babies as they see me, gone are the horrified stares and ear-splitting screams. They are replaced with looks of permission, acceptance, and interest attached with a growing, toothless smile upon my approach. The bonding begins when I pick them up. We (The baby and me) communicate through eye contact, facial expressions, and mimicry. I carry on a conversation for both of us. I say what I think they would say if they could talk. They babble back and I talk some more. Eventually I give them back to their parents and look forward to spending time with my own.

At home I accept the fact that my children invade my room for the comfort, safety, and security of the maternal bed. Once there, they curl their bodies into fetal positions, resembling an ultra-sound image on the bed, in their attempt to return to the uterine environment they were forced to vacate. I relish the invasion now because in seeking their independence, they will no longer want maternal protection. In the outside world, I’m part of the parental patrol. Arresting potential disobedience with a raised eyebrow and a maternal glare that would deter the most petulant child. My beat is the playground, policing play areas, saving children from themselves. Averting them from broken bones, scraped knees, the unpleasant taste of playground wood chips, and reuniting lost children and frantic parents at the mall.

When my children have flown away from home into adulthood and I’m experiencing the rapture of retirement and celebrating the silence of an empty nest; I’ll volunteer at the hospital nursery holding sick and abandoned babies. I’ll hold them so that they can thrive and grow and in return, I’ll get another chance to behold innocence to behold the glory and handiwork of God. Holding the future, cradling a bundle of joy and possibility, and celebrating the epiphany of the cycle of life. 

      As my children have now grown into competent young women, I worry about them more now as they venture out into the world. I worry about car accidents and human trafficking. I no longer have parental prerogative and they don’t need my permission to live their lives. I hope that they will exercise wisdom and good judgement from the lessons and advice I have given as they grew up. The universe teaches them the lessons they refused to learn from us. The lessons the universe teaches are often cruel and costly. Ultimately, they know that home is a soft place to land with a warm, welcoming hug, sometimes tough love, chicken soup for their souls, and their bedroom waiting for them as they left it. A mother’s work is never done. Sometimes mother knows best, and a mother’s love is eternal.