It was the full-on, ugly, ma’am-can-somebody-get-you-a-sedative cry. And while I wasn’t exactly sure what part of my conversation with Elise moved me to tears, I suspected it had something to do with the fact that she had completely surrendered herself to somebody besides herself. I’d heard about doing that in response to God for most of my life, but I don’t think I’d ever realized the deep, sacrificial nature of a parent’s love until I heard it in Elise’s voice. And somehow, in some deep-down place inside me, it changed me.
God changed me.
I didn’t realize it in that moment, of course. That phone call was really just the tiniest step onto a long bridge. I had to walk that bridge for a year (or eight) before I could turn around and see that my viewpoint had changed.
When David and I started dating seriously, we talked about kids. I think that’s pretty standard conversational fare when you’re realizing that you’re going to spend the rest of your life with somebody. We were twenty-six-ish, I think, and neither of us had nieces or nephews—an interesting detail for two people who are the babies in their families by a country mile. I don’t remember our being completely opposed to the idea of kids, but I don’t remember being gung ho, either. We both wanted to enjoy married life and go on great vacations and live in cool houses. I even told a friend of mine that I probably wouldn’t have children because I was a teacher and the last thing I’d want to do was leave high school kids in the afternoon and then have to go home and take care of my own.
Good point, Captain Wisdom. Because those relationships are totally the same thing.
And to be clear: I don’t think parenthood is a given for everybody. Neither is marriage. God’s going to use all of us differently. It just tickles me that I thought I had it all figured out when I was neither a wife nor a parent. And when I was barely old enough to rent a car, for that matter.
After David and I got married, we honestly didn’t talk much about kids for quite some time. Both of us had lived on our own for six years after college, so after we married, we spent a lot of time trying to adjust to (1) sleeping in a bed with another person, (2) living with another person, (3) checking with another person before making dinner plans with friends, (4) learning not to snap at another person because the togetherness can be exhausting, and (5) wondering how anyone ever makes it through the first year of marriage because that is a LOT of time with another person.
We really did love each other.
But we really did drive each other crazy.
Maybe one day, if I have the strength, I will tell you about the night David threw his bag of tortilla chips at the kitchen wall because I wanted him to share them with me.
It was almost exactly like one of those tender Hallmark card moments, except that it wasn’t.
Here’s the thing: having a wedding is easy, but being married is hard. Considering that David and I had ambled into marriage thinking maybe we had a little bit of emotional baggage that we were going to have to deal with—only to find out that we’d each brought several extra-large, customized steamer trunks filled with barbells as well as a kicky assortment of lead—we didn’t have an easy go of it for the first three years. And when we finally started to unpack those steamer trunks after our third anniversary, we had no idea that the unpacking and the dealing and the healing would take another couple of years.
So by year five, when we were in our early thirties and most of our friends had two or maybe even three kids (and my friend Wendi had four. FOUR!), we were just thankful to have a marriage that was still intact. We’d moved to Birmingham, a place that immediately felt like home to both of us, and we had started to use the b word (“baby”) a little bit more. However, I still couldn’t wrap my head around the reality of having a child living in our house. I couldn’t wrap my head around the reality of having a child growing in my body. After all, there are only a couple of options in terms of getting a baby out, and I couldn’t really get on board with either of them.
In the summer of 2002 I went to the doctor for my yearly checkup. When I mentioned that David and I were talking a little more about having a baby, the doctor looked over my chart, told me to be sure to take my vitamins, and before I left his office, gave me the go-ahead to “start trying,” an expression that makes my skin crawl a little bit. Maybe I’m too uptight about it, but whenever someone says they’re going to “start trying,” I’m always mindful that what they’re actually saying is, “Oh, we are about to start having A LOT OF SEX in our house.” Quite frankly that is just way more information than I need.
A few weeks later, David and I went to Myrtlewood for several days so we could celebrate Martha’s birthday. We’d asked her to make a list of jobs she wanted done around the house—she and Sissie lived together, but neither one of them had any business being on a ladder, you understand—and we planned to spend a long weekend painting and planting and trying to check a few things off Martha’s list. I thought on the drive over that I felt a little queasy—not sick, exactly, though definitely not normal—but I chalked it up to carsickness and ate a few crackers.
I think for normal people the uncharacteristic nausea probably would have been a clue that MA’AM, YOU COULD VERY WELL BE WITH CHILD, but the thought barely crossed my mind. After all, it had only been about three weeks since I’d seen the doctor, and I’d already decided that if we ever got really serious about having a baby, it would no doubt take me a sweet forever to get pregnant.
Yes. I decided.
Welcome to my crazy. I hope you enjoy your stay.
The nausea ebbed and flowed while we were at Martha’s, and by the time we got back to Birmingham, I had a pretty strong suspicion that I was gonna be a mama to somebody besides our dogs. I didn’t want to take a pregnancy test, though, because I kind of enjoyed dwelling in the Land of Not Knowing. I realize that probably sounds absolutely ludicrous, but on some level I was scared to get my hopes up. I had mastered the fine art of waiting for the other shoe to drop, so a baby? That soon? When I’d spent the better part of twenty-five years thinking I wasn’t the motherly type?
I seriously could not fathom that the Lord would be that gracious to me. Could not fathom it.
But He was. The doctor confirmed it (after I took a home pregnancy test and decided that there was no way that it could be accurate). I was due in March. Finding out was one of the sweetest moments of my whole life, mainly because it was one of the most unexpected moments of my whole life.
God is so much better than I deserve.
My pregnancy was a fairly standard affair, and I did my best to soak up every second. Since I’d never thought much about what it would feel like to actually be pregnant, the whole experience was just astonishing to me. Whether it was hearing the heartbeat, finding out we were having a boy, feeling him kick, or picking out fabric for the nursery, I basically spent the better part of eight months wanting to say, “PEOPLE! THIS PREGNANCY THING? WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME? THIS IS DELIGHTFUL!”
You may have picked up on the fact that I tend to operate at extremes. I’m either fighting my way through vehement opposition or trying to convince everybody I know that I have singlehandedly discovered the most awesome awesomeness the world has to offer.
It’s a very charming and endearing quality, as I’m sure you can imagine. And it’s not at all annoying. Not at all.
As much as I loved those first eight months of pregnancy, I have to admit that I was a sight by February. I felt like my belly started just below my throat and ended right above my knees. My lips looked like I’d had a run-in with an economy-sized vial of Restylane, and when I talked I sounded like a swollen duck, only significantly less melodious than one would imagine a swollen duck to be. My feet were basically planks, and on a good day I could wedge them into some bedroom slippers or maybe even some extra-wide flats I’d picked up at the Payless. I wasn’t at all sure I’d ever see my ankles again. Plus, going to sleep was a joke since there was absolutely no way to get comfortable, and on the off chance that I dozed
off for longer than an hour, my unique oh-sweet-mercy-is-there-a-wounded-animal-in-the-house brand of snoring would inevitably jar me from my fitful slumber.
But before I knew it, it was a Friday morning in mid-March, and as the first hint of sunlight came over the horizon, David and I climbed in the car (Okay. I’ll be honest. I hoisted myself in the car) and drove to the hospital. I was terrified. David was practically doing somersaults in the front seat, and I think if I hadn’t been so busy crying, I probably would’ve punched him (gently) in the arm. After all, I was a smidge overwhelmed by what being a mama would entail, and I needed to have my final pre-baby breakdown without his unbridled enthusiasm working overtime to cheer me up.
Bless his heart.
Trying to anticipate and diffuse my ever-changing moods was a losing battle, but that didn’t stop him from fighting the good fight.
When we finally arrived at the hospital, my nerves all but vanished. I became immeasurably calmer, which no doubt had everything to do with medication. I had a scheduled C-section, and before I knew it, our sweet nurse was praying over us and then wheeling me back to the surgery suite. You probably shouldn’t quote me on this, but I’m pretty sure that they call it a “suite” so patients will get distracted by the luxurious terminology and forget about all the Sharp Medical Instruments and Bloodsucking Machines that await them on the other side of those swinging doors.
That is merely my own personal theory. By all means feel free to dismiss it if you prefer to think of the suite as an extra-large room at the Westin, complete with a heavenly bed, a high-definition television, and round-the-clock complimentary room service.
About thirty minutes after my epidural, and after some significant tugging and pulling (I also assume there was some cutting, but I choose not to think about that part), my wonderful doctor held up a beautiful, bawling baby boy who was essentially a three-month-old. Ten pounds, seven ounces. Nearly twenty-three inches. Gorgeous. Perfect. Surreal.
I wondered if I’d catch my first glimpse of Alex and we’d have an “amazing connection” like all those mamas on TLC’s A Baby Story who give birth without the aid of anesthesia in large round tubs filled with water while the whole family looks on. Those shows always astound me, because while the expectant mama contorts herself over the back of a sofa, dilated to six centimeters and trying not to pass out from the pain, the kids are all standing at the front door, handing a Domino’s delivery guy some cash and then getting back to the important business of their intrafamily Wii Sports Resort tournament. The mama looks at her older children with great love and affection, then shakes her head as if to say, “Oh, those crazy kids,” despite the fact that her contractions have amped up to Mach 10 and her husband is still in the kitchen digging through the medicine cabinet for some ibuprofen.
Because when it comes to dulling the agony of full-blown labor, ibuprofen is just the medicinal ticket.
I mean, I know full well that I’m a medical coward and all, but after Alex was born and my back was killing me and the doctors were tending to the somewhat essential business of putting me back together again, ibuprofen was the last thing on my mind.
But a morphine pump?
Oh, now you’re talking. Yes, please, and thank you. I believe I will.
And as it turned out, Alex and I didn’t really have time for an “amazing connection” since I still needed an assortment of staples and stitches. So once I saw him, kissed his little forehead, pronounced that he looked exactly like my older nephew, and knew that he was healthy, I was perfectly fine letting David take over for a few minutes while I got some relief (Heyyyyyyy, morphine pump!) and the doctors returned all my organs to their proper places. I’m practical like that.
About fifteen minutes later, when the little man was all cleaned up and I was back in the recovery room, the nurse finally placed him in my arms. I was mesmerized. It had nothing to do with the fact that I had been carrying him for nine months, but it had everything to do with the realization that he was a wonder, a gift, and—as trite as it may sound—a miracle. I loved him instantly, and I was deeply, profoundly humbled by the realization that as much as I loved Alex in that moment, it was just an infinitesimal fraction of how much God loves us. It was an instantaneous, profound, life-altering shift in perspective.
That baby boy changed everything for me. And in all the best ways.
The next couple of days flew by in a blur of family and friends and baby love. I developed a special bond with the crushed ice on the maternity floor and was apparently so obsessed with it that I announced to anyone who would listen that the ice was extra delicious because while it had the same consistency as the crushed ice at Sonic, size-wise it was more like the crushed ice at Hardee’s (Heyyyyyyy, morphine pump!).
That weekend also happened to be the Southeastern Conference men’s basketball tournament. My beloved Mississippi State Bulldogs had made it to the championship game, so when I wasn’t holding or nursing or cooing at my baby, I spent a great deal of time screaming, “BLOCK OUT!” and “REBOUND!” and “PASS THE BALL!” while simultaneously setting off the alarm on my blood pressure monitor.
Welcome to the world, Alex Hudson. It’s better if you know from the get-go that your mama believes way down in her soul that the Bulldogs can hear her yelling through the TV.
Sunday night was our last night in the hospital, and since I was starting to feel more like myself again (So long, morphine pump!), I asked David if he’d pick up some nonhospital food for supper and then head home for the night to make sure that our dogs were okay.
He returned to the hospital with Mexican food, which was such a thoughtful gesture since I love Mexican food almost as much as I love fried chicken. Unfortunately, David didn’t realize I had to avoid spicy food since I was nursing the baby, so I pushed all the good stuff to the side and enjoyed a delicious corn tortilla for supper. It was just like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: tacos, tacos, everywhere / but ne’er a bean to eat.
We had a real good laugh about it once my postpartum hormones decided it was funny.
After David went home, Alex decided he was hungry, so I fed him and thought it would be nice for the two of us to visit for a little while. It was the first time we’d been by ourselves when he was awake, and as I sat in that squishy vinyl hospital chair and stared at what was surely the most precious face I had ever seen, I told that little man how much I loved him, how often I’d prayed for him, how thankful I was for the privilege of being his mama. And I thought about my very favorite passage of Scripture—one I’d committed to memory when I was seventeen years old and had no idea how faithful the Lord would be through the struggles and wonders and heartaches and joys that lay ahead: “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever” (Ephesians 3:20-21, NIV).
And then I cried. Because having a child—being a family—was an “immeasurably more” moment for me. I was overcome with gratitude that God had given us the gift of this sweet baby—a gift that, for most of my life, I had no idea I wanted.
Alex cried, too, by the way. But I think it was because he had a dirty diaper.
I snapped out of my tearful reverie and gingerly stood up from the chair. I grabbed a diaper, changed the little man, and after a little swaying, a little singing, and a little swaddling, I put him in his bassinette. And y’all, he went straight to sleep.
He totally did.
Well, what do you know? I thought. Maybe I do have some maternal instincts after all.
That’s the thing about the “immeasurably more.” God prepares you for it even when it’s nowhere on your to-do list.
And now that I have the benefit of looking at my childhood through a lens with some wisdom attached, it occurs to me that during all those Sunday dinners when I was growing up, I learned something way more important than how to make a pitcher of sweet tea or where to put the s
alad fork or when to pick up dinner plates before Mama served dessert. I learned something more important than how to be a lady, even.
I learned to listen and to laugh. I learned to forgive. I learned that some earthly love really is unconditional. I learned that God is always at work in the day to day. I learned that even when you’re sad or embarrassed or just plain mad, you’re always welcome at the table.
And more than anything else, I learned how to take care of people. I learned how to let them take care of me. I learned how to be a family.
I didn’t have the slightest clue that anyone was teaching me, of course.
But I’m forever grateful for the lesson.
CHAPTER SIX
Mother’s Got a Bell! A Ringy-Ding Bell!
WHEN SISSIE WAS ABOUT ninety-five years young, she fell and broke her hip. The ensuing hospital stay was a lengthy one, and once Sissie finally returned home, Martha realized that she was going to need some extra help to take care of her mother. She decided on a local home health service, and while the bulk of the Sissie-related responsibilities still fell on Martha’s shoulders, she was able to schedule sitters for a few hours every day so she could run to the grocery store, go to church, or meet friends for lunch. Martha’s attentiveness to Sissie’s care demonstrated a level of devotion that would make Florence Nightingale say, “Dang—I need to step up my game,” so whenever Martha would leave the house, she always made sure that there was a small, handheld bell beside Sissie’s bed. Just in case Sissie needed to ring it for some immediate attention, you understand.
One of Martha’s favorite annual events has always been her Sunday school class’s Christmas party, and even though she was absolutely exhausted and could barely wrap her brain around putting on a sparkly three-quarter-sleeve jacket with some dressy slacks and spending the evening at the country club, she figured it would be good for her spirits to spend a few hours with her friends. Martha went to great pains to schedule a sitter—not an easy feat during the holidays—and before she left the house, she made sure to tell Sissie that someone else was there to help.
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