Motherhood: The Good, The Bad . . .
The Wonderful!
Walk along the shelves of a book store and browse the family life or self-help sections . . . There are countless selections on helping your child grow into the perfect human being that you envision he will be. Yet among the rows and rows of books, you will find no perfect formula for motherhood. Motherhood is one of those subjects learned mostly through trial and error, and the operative word here is “trial.”
No career is more stressful than being COO of your family, yet the joys of motherhood are infinite. Your first day on the job is not the child’s date of birth and your retirement date is not his wedding day. Motherhood, my friend, is a job that you commit yourself to for life from the moment of conception!
Here’s how my 30+ years of motherhood began . . .
Pregnancy, Labor, & Delivery
Very few women get through pregnancy without at least one of the curses—uh, I mean symptoms—that the mother of all mothers, Eve (bless her heart!?) endowed to her heirs.
My husband and I (all of 21 years old) had only been married a couple of years when I discovered I was pregnant. My initiation into pregnancy was not too bad by some standards. I noticed my first symptom while showering . . .
Who in the world decided to beat my breasts with large rocks while I was sleeping? OUCH! There were no drug store pregnancy tests in those days, so I spent about six weeks wondering if the sore boobs were a result of something more than PMS. The tenderness hung around a little too long, so with suspicions aroused, I went to see my family doctor.
Despite my somber face, my doctor, a petite Filipino woman with a pretty heavy accent, was exuberant when she discovered the reason for my visit. I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to check a urine sample. While I waited, she came bounding into the examination room to keep me company.
“Why so sad? Just tink . . . you baby go to kindergarten when you tinty-eight year old.” Mentally doing the math, she continued. “He graduate school when you forty. Good ting! GOOD ting! Be hoppy!”
The nurse walked in and with a nod of her head, my doctor’s voice went up a few octaves. “Oh, I hope you baby have you dimple!!” she said, poking her tiny index finger into the cleft of my chin. “You okay? It good ting! GOOD ting!”
I drove home in a sort of zombie-like trance where my husband was anxiously awaiting the test results.
“Well?”
“I’m pregnant,” I said in a monotone voice.
“You are,” said the man who was now hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean.
After I took a seat on the sofa and stared into space for the next 10 minutes, my husband asked: “Did you cry?”
“No.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” my monosyllabic answers now sounding robotic.
“Can I tell my parents?”
“Yes.”
As word got around, the idea of a baby sort of grew on me. But it wasn’t until a month or so later when I started having Braxton Hicks contractions that I realized I would take on the role of motherhood with gusto! When I thought my pregnancy—and my baby—were in jeopardy, suddenly I knew that I would do anything to bring this baby into the world. That’s when I cried.
If you think of motherhood in terms of a job, then let’s think of the pregnancy portion as the hazing phase of initiation into some sick sorority! While my first pregnancy was relatively easy, the second time around was filled with challenges. I had fainting spells and I threw up all day, every day for the entire nine months. In fact, as my obstetrician put my feet in the stirrups to deliver the little darling, I asked the nurse to hold my head so I could throw up one more time.
While a two and a half hour labor sounds like a piece of cake, trust me, more time is better. When I got to the hospital, the doctor said my cervix wasn’t dilated, and it would be a long night. Mind you, a woman’s cervix has to dilate from the size of a pin hole to 10 centimeters during labor. The baby who couldn’t wait to get here started his journey down the birth canal and made his way into the world in a mere two and half hours! I’ll give you girls a minute to think about that.
Little did I know that this pregnancy and delivery gave some hint of the early years with my son Dustin, who celebrates his 25th birthday as I write this story.
The Early Years
The day my son, Bo, was born at the old McLeod Infirmary, my mother was a patient at Marion Memorial Hospital in the final stages of cancer, which was diagnosed soon after I learned I was pregnant. During that time, there were many phone calls to the family informing us that today might be her last. But she held on long enough to see her grandson and to cradle him in the crook of her arm while she lay in her hospital bed.
The few times Mama saw Bo he was screaming at the top of his lungs. My grandmother, who had 10 children, told me once that Bo was the “cryingest baby she had ever seen!”
I thought to myself: “Well, she ought to know! If he cries more than any of her children, I must be doing something wrong!” Later, I realized that my stress was contributing to all that wailing and I’m sure Mama’s weakened condition didn’t inspire much confidence in my dark haired, red-faced newborn.
Once things settled down, Bo’s crying abated and he became a good baby. He grew into a precious toddler who could entertain himself for hours on end. All he needed was a big yellow Tonka truck and some rocks, and he was a happy little boy. I can still see him in those Superman PJs, a towel around his shoulders, and cowboy boots on his little feet.
Bo walked early but talked a little late compared to his peers. When he did start talking, he almost always used his inside voice and rarely talked back. But there was that period of time when he had an imaginary friend, John Kenny, and for some reason, Bo and John Kenny liked to cuss.
Dustin, on the other hand, was a colicky baby. His daddy became known as the Midnight Rider in our little community because of his frequent attempts to stop Dustin’s screams at 2 AM by riding him around in his truck. Of course, as soon as the motor stopped running, the crying started all over again. The child didn’t sleep all night until he was three years old!
A New Chapter
Before Dustin’s second birthday, my husband and I separated and I entered the world of single parenthood. Earning an annual salary of less than $15,000, I moved into a little, two-bedroom duplex in Marion. We were living in cramped quarters and on a tight budget to say the least.
Bo was in first grade and had the benefit of a supportive team of teachers and counselors who helped him adjust to his parents’ separation. But Dustin was still not sleeping all night. I usually put him to bed around 8:00, and by the time I made it to bed, he was awake.
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Do you hurt?”
“No!”
“Do you want water?”
“No!!.”
“Do you want to rock?”
“NO!!!!! WAAAAHHHHHH!”
I tried lying with him and even putting him in my bed, but it made no difference. He still cried. So I tried the cry-it-out method. Let me tell you, that kid had staying power!
Until Dustin was five, he had one of the raspiest voices you have ever heard. People used to ask me why he sounded so hoarse all the time. If they had only heard those wails for hours on end, they would never have asked such a stupid question!
Despite living from paycheck to paycheck and taking care of two little boys totally on my own (their dad was in basic training around that time), I look back on those years as some of the happiest times of my life.
Dustin was a very precocious child, so his big brother tried to help me keep him in check. It was not unusual for me to find Dustin sitting on top of the refrigerator, reaching that height by climbing the rungs on the ladder back chairs.
And then there was his propensity to eat and drink things that aren’t meant to be ingested. He drank shampoo and Sea Breeze and quickly learned how to remove child-proof caps from medication bottles. I know this sounds like an exaggeration, but I called the Poison Control Center so often that they recognized my name!! When I started crying thinking they would surely report me to Child Protective Services, the attendant assured me that there were lots of kids like Dustin who seem to get into all kinds of things despite their parents’ best efforts. I finally got rid of the Syrup of Ipecac in my medicine chest around Dustin’s sixth birthday.
In retrospect, there were other events that are downright hysterical, but rather than risk the wrath of my children, I’ll refrain from divulging the details. Suffice it to say that my adventures included . . .
· Removal of a toy tank from a body part where no boy would ever want to attach a mechanical object.
· Walking around in my attic to check for sparks after one child decided to explore and decided he needed more light. Upon his request for assistance, the other child provided a paper towel and a box of matches. Paper towels burn quickly so the new carpet on the floor below took the brunt of the fire.
· Trying to figure out why one child was laughing about his little brother’s wet hair after a visit to a Pizza Hut restroom. Apparently, the urinals are of a height inappropriate for little children so the aim and the accompanying spray went up, not down.
· Explaining a sexual term to one child that he called ‘monostration.’ Thinking he meant a woman’s monthly cycle, I went into great detail until he interrupted me telling me he knew all about that. Since this is a G-rated publication, I’ll tell you that he got the first and last letters right. Think about it . . .
Some Kind of Wonderful
This Mother’s Day, my oldest son and I will celebrate his 30th birthday, and I’m still on the job. Among the funny things, I treasure memories—the little notes and handmade cards, the time Dustin called me the Barbara Walters of mothers (it was meant as a compliment), the recap of the events of their days, their first girlfriends, their first broken hearts. I cherish the time I was asked to help choose an engagement ring and plan a proposal. And even more than that, there was the phone call on Bo’s wedding night when he called just to let me know that he was looking at his beautiful bride and wanted me to know how happy he was. I think that might have been one of those Mt. Everest moments.
I appreciate my maturity when I have meaningful adult conversations with my children and I am made young again by participating in Bo’s adventures as a parent and by being a grandmother to his children. And I can’t wait for round two as Dustin finds and marries the girl of his dreams and has his own family.
No career is more stressful than being COO of your family, yet the joys of motherhood are infinite. Your first day on the job is not the child’s date of birth and your retirement date is not his wedding day. Motherhood, my friend, is a job that you commit yourself to for life from the moment of conception!
Here’s how my 30+ years of motherhood began . . .
Pregnancy, Labor, & Delivery
Very few women get through pregnancy without at least one of the curses—uh, I mean symptoms—that the mother of all mothers, Eve (bless her heart!?) endowed to her heirs.
My husband and I (all of 21 years old) had only been married a couple of years when I discovered I was pregnant. My initiation into pregnancy was not too bad by some standards. I noticed my first symptom while showering . . .
Who in the world decided to beat my breasts with large rocks while I was sleeping? OUCH! There were no drug store pregnancy tests in those days, so I spent about six weeks wondering if the sore boobs were a result of something more than PMS. The tenderness hung around a little too long, so with suspicions aroused, I went to see my family doctor.
Despite my somber face, my doctor, a petite Filipino woman with a pretty heavy accent, was exuberant when she discovered the reason for my visit. I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to check a urine sample. While I waited, she came bounding into the examination room to keep me company.
“Why so sad? Just tink . . . you baby go to kindergarten when you tinty-eight year old.” Mentally doing the math, she continued. “He graduate school when you forty. Good ting! GOOD ting! Be hoppy!”
The nurse walked in and with a nod of her head, my doctor’s voice went up a few octaves. “Oh, I hope you baby have you dimple!!” she said, poking her tiny index finger into the cleft of my chin. “You okay? It good ting! GOOD ting!”
I drove home in a sort of zombie-like trance where my husband was anxiously awaiting the test results.
“Well?”
“I’m pregnant,” I said in a monotone voice.
“You are,” said the man who was now hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean.
After I took a seat on the sofa and stared into space for the next 10 minutes, my husband asked: “Did you cry?”
“No.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” my monosyllabic answers now sounding robotic.
“Can I tell my parents?”
“Yes.”
As word got around, the idea of a baby sort of grew on me. But it wasn’t until a month or so later when I started having Braxton Hicks contractions that I realized I would take on the role of motherhood with gusto! When I thought my pregnancy—and my baby—were in jeopardy, suddenly I knew that I would do anything to bring this baby into the world. That’s when I cried.
If you think of motherhood in terms of a job, then let’s think of the pregnancy portion as the hazing phase of initiation into some sick sorority! While my first pregnancy was relatively easy, the second time around was filled with challenges. I had fainting spells and I threw up all day, every day for the entire nine months. In fact, as my obstetrician put my feet in the stirrups to deliver the little darling, I asked the nurse to hold my head so I could throw up one more time.
While a two and a half hour labor sounds like a piece of cake, trust me, more time is better. When I got to the hospital, the doctor said my cervix wasn’t dilated, and it would be a long night. Mind you, a woman’s cervix has to dilate from the size of a pin hole to 10 centimeters during labor. The baby who couldn’t wait to get here started his journey down the birth canal and made his way into the world in a mere two and half hours! I’ll give you girls a minute to think about that.
Little did I know that this pregnancy and delivery gave some hint of the early years with my son Dustin, who celebrates his 25th birthday as I write this story.
The Early Years
The day my son, Bo, was born at the old McLeod Infirmary, my mother was a patient at Marion Memorial Hospital in the final stages of cancer, which was diagnosed soon after I learned I was pregnant. During that time, there were many phone calls to the family informing us that today might be her last. But she held on long enough to see her grandson and to cradle him in the crook of her arm while she lay in her hospital bed.
The few times Mama saw Bo he was screaming at the top of his lungs. My grandmother, who had 10 children, told me once that Bo was the “cryingest baby she had ever seen!”
I thought to myself: “Well, she ought to know! If he cries more than any of her children, I must be doing something wrong!” Later, I realized that my stress was contributing to all that wailing and I’m sure Mama’s weakened condition didn’t inspire much confidence in my dark haired, red-faced newborn.
Once things settled down, Bo’s crying abated and he became a good baby. He grew into a precious toddler who could entertain himself for hours on end. All he needed was a big yellow Tonka truck and some rocks, and he was a happy little boy. I can still see him in those Superman PJs, a towel around his shoulders, and cowboy boots on his little feet.
Bo walked early but talked a little late compared to his peers. When he did start talking, he almost always used his inside voice and rarely talked back. But there was that period of time when he had an imaginary friend, John Kenny, and for some reason, Bo and John Kenny liked to cuss.
Dustin, on the other hand, was a colicky baby. His daddy became known as the Midnight Rider in our little community because of his frequent attempts to stop Dustin’s screams at 2 AM by riding him around in his truck. Of course, as soon as the motor stopped running, the crying started all over again. The child didn’t sleep all night until he was three years old!
A New Chapter
Before Dustin’s second birthday, my husband and I separated and I entered the world of single parenthood. Earning an annual salary of less than $15,000, I moved into a little, two-bedroom duplex in Marion. We were living in cramped quarters and on a tight budget to say the least.
Bo was in first grade and had the benefit of a supportive team of teachers and counselors who helped him adjust to his parents’ separation. But Dustin was still not sleeping all night. I usually put him to bed around 8:00, and by the time I made it to bed, he was awake.
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Do you hurt?”
“No!”
“Do you want water?”
“No!!.”
“Do you want to rock?”
“NO!!!!! WAAAAHHHHHH!”
I tried lying with him and even putting him in my bed, but it made no difference. He still cried. So I tried the cry-it-out method. Let me tell you, that kid had staying power!
Until Dustin was five, he had one of the raspiest voices you have ever heard. People used to ask me why he sounded so hoarse all the time. If they had only heard those wails for hours on end, they would never have asked such a stupid question!
Despite living from paycheck to paycheck and taking care of two little boys totally on my own (their dad was in basic training around that time), I look back on those years as some of the happiest times of my life.
Dustin was a very precocious child, so his big brother tried to help me keep him in check. It was not unusual for me to find Dustin sitting on top of the refrigerator, reaching that height by climbing the rungs on the ladder back chairs.
And then there was his propensity to eat and drink things that aren’t meant to be ingested. He drank shampoo and Sea Breeze and quickly learned how to remove child-proof caps from medication bottles. I know this sounds like an exaggeration, but I called the Poison Control Center so often that they recognized my name!! When I started crying thinking they would surely report me to Child Protective Services, the attendant assured me that there were lots of kids like Dustin who seem to get into all kinds of things despite their parents’ best efforts. I finally got rid of the Syrup of Ipecac in my medicine chest around Dustin’s sixth birthday.
In retrospect, there were other events that are downright hysterical, but rather than risk the wrath of my children, I’ll refrain from divulging the details. Suffice it to say that my adventures included . . .
· Removal of a toy tank from a body part where no boy would ever want to attach a mechanical object.
· Walking around in my attic to check for sparks after one child decided to explore and decided he needed more light. Upon his request for assistance, the other child provided a paper towel and a box of matches. Paper towels burn quickly so the new carpet on the floor below took the brunt of the fire.
· Trying to figure out why one child was laughing about his little brother’s wet hair after a visit to a Pizza Hut restroom. Apparently, the urinals are of a height inappropriate for little children so the aim and the accompanying spray went up, not down.
· Explaining a sexual term to one child that he called ‘monostration.’ Thinking he meant a woman’s monthly cycle, I went into great detail until he interrupted me telling me he knew all about that. Since this is a G-rated publication, I’ll tell you that he got the first and last letters right. Think about it . . .
Some Kind of Wonderful
This Mother’s Day, my oldest son and I will celebrate his 30th birthday, and I’m still on the job. Among the funny things, I treasure memories—the little notes and handmade cards, the time Dustin called me the Barbara Walters of mothers (it was meant as a compliment), the recap of the events of their days, their first girlfriends, their first broken hearts. I cherish the time I was asked to help choose an engagement ring and plan a proposal. And even more than that, there was the phone call on Bo’s wedding night when he called just to let me know that he was looking at his beautiful bride and wanted me to know how happy he was. I think that might have been one of those Mt. Everest moments.
I appreciate my maturity when I have meaningful adult conversations with my children and I am made young again by participating in Bo’s adventures as a parent and by being a grandmother to his children. And I can’t wait for round two as Dustin finds and marries the girl of his dreams and has his own family.
