The Nest is Emptying
A week from Tuesday, my 19 year-old daughter, Cindi, will be moving out and into the University of Wisconsin-Parkside college dorm, as a Sophomore. She went to school last year, but commuted the 30+ miles every day of the week. With the rising cost of gasoline, and her desire to focus more on school, we’ve come to the conclusion it would be better for her all the way around to move into the dorm.
I like the idea. I’m glad she’s doing it. That doesn’t mean I won’t miss her. Cindi and I are very close, and it’s going to be difficult when she leaves. I’ll probably sob like a baby, but I know she has to do this.
Twenty-one-year-old Kelli moved out last April. She gave us one day’s notice, had no firm plan and no money. I was frantic. Funny enough though, she is making it – barely, but making it. When Kelli left, I didn’t think I was going to survive it.
All these years, Tom and I have been “dreaming” about the empty nest – wishing for it, anticipating it, wanting it. And yet, now that it is almost completely upon us, I’m not too crazy about it. The truth is, I want my children around me. I want them around me forever. They are constantly on my mind and in my heart. Whatever happened to the nuclear family? What was so wrong with that set-up? It doesn’t seem right that we’ve got this big four-bedroom, four-bath house, and no kids to fill it up with.
Our son stays with us, but only because he can’t afford to move out yet. If he could, he’d be out there in a heartbeat, away from me. If he could, he would get as far away from me as he could possibly make it. That doesn’t seem right.
But I remember when all I wanted in my life was to get away from my parents. I wanted my own place in the world. I wanted responsibility. I wanted confidence. I wanted to grow up. When it comes down to it, I don’t really want my children to grow up. I’d be happy if they were little again.
I know this is the way life is supposed to be; that my children are supposed to grow up and leave me, but I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to ever get used to it, and I honestly don’t think I ever will. That’s not a complaint, just a fact, and I needed to express it.
Perhaps when they marry and bring me grandchildren, I’ll be able to get the big picture. But until then, I’m not buying into the “niceties” of the empty nest. Just as I never received a manual when the children were born, I don’t quite know how to handle this leaving home business. I guess it’ll come in time; raising them did. I sure have been blessed to have had that experience.
The truth is I know it’ll all work out. It’s just going to take me a little time to get used to the idea of the empty nest.
The Charm of a Small Town
There’s something good to be said about small towns. I was born, raised and lived for 40 years in a small city about 40 miles north of Chicago. Waukegan, Illinois, a bustling metropolis of about 80,000 ((not a small town), is best known as the birthplace of Jack Benny and author Ray Bradbury.
In summertime, mom and dad would pack up the family of seven and head on down to Litchfield, Illinois, where my mother was originally from. Litchfield is about 30 miles south of the Capital of Springfield. In the ‘60’s and ‘70’s when I was a kid, Litchfield had a population of only about 7,200, and today it’s actually gotten smaller at about 6,800.
Yes, we were used to living in a busier environment with its factories, churches, banks and most of all, traffic. One would think we’d be bored in a small town like Litchfield, but we weren’t. I had some of the best times of my life there.
My mother was the seventh child of nine, born to Levin and Margaret. She was born on Christmas Day in 1929, just about two months after the stock market crash, right in the throws of the Great Depression. Her father, about 80% deaf, worked as a carnival photographer and was often away from home. Her mother was a homemaker and hospital housekeeper, and they were not in the least very well off. They lived in a small house and often did not know where their next meal would come from, but somehow they got through those tough times.
I loved my Grandma C. (last names withheld) very much. I can remember her as far back as age 72. The one thing I remember most about her is that she always suffered severely with rheumatoid arthritis; took several Bufferin each day, and drank the hottest, blackest Maxwell House coffee you could ever imagine. She hurt constantly, and we kids were always scared to death we were going to make it worse by embracing her or even going near her. I can remember my cousin, Janice, saying, “Don’t step on Grandmaw’s feet, don’t step on Grandmaw’s hurtin’ feet.” She lived until she was 86 years old, the last five years in a nursing home.
I think the members of a community relying on one another are something that a small town has that bigger towns and cities don’t have as much of. Mom had many friends back home in Litchfield. We’d stroll downtown to the Rexall or the Fashion Lane, and at every turn, there was someone to say hello to or enjoy a visit with. That’s how small towns are. Everybody knows each other. They care for one another.
I can remember very much enjoying spending time with my Uncle Earl, a bachelor all his life. Uncle Earl was kind of a kid himself in many ways, and he related to us little ones quite naturally. He was gifted at gardening and painting and drawing and he could play accordian by ear! I can remember him teaching me how peach seeds have to germinate in the sun a certain amount of time before they can be planted. I must have been about eight years old. He really enjoyed we kids. He often would put us all in a wagon and hook it up to the back of his riding lawn mower and give us rides all evening long, all around their yard, which was about a half acre. That was fun. He never got tired of us. Our parents never worried about us when we were with Uncle Earl.
When the carnival came to town, Uncle Earl, was right there with an open wallet and the enthusiasm of a child. He didn’t have a lot of money, as he worked as a dishwasher in a hotel for many years, but he always found plenty to take my sister and me on at least five or six rides. We’d have a ball together.
One time, Uncle Earl walked my sister, Tammy, and I down to Mohr’s Grocery store, about three blocks West on Jones Street. The road had been newly oiled and was scorching hot in the August sun. Tammy and I hadn’t bothered to put any shoes on that day, and we started crying, as our feet were burning like fire. My Uncle Earl, a big man of about 6 feet tall, picked up both Tammy and I, held us each in one arm, walked us to Mohr’s, bought us a 7-cent Popsicle, and carried us all the way back home. He didn’t complain for a minute. I think he would have made a good dad.
When we’d visit Litchfield, if it was summer, we would camp at Hillsboro Lake, about 12 miles East. In winter, we would stay at the family homestead at 914 South Montgomery. It was a 4-room house, with no indoor plumbing, but was always plenty inviting to us. It sure was cold in winter, and every morning about 5 o’clock, my Uncle George would shovel the coal into the big black pot belly stove that stood in the middle of the living room. I don’t think that stove ever generated much heat, but he’d do it anyway – every morning, without fail.
I had about twenty-five cousins and eight aunts and uncles not including the spouses. I can remember enjoying family picnics out at Walton Park or Lake Lou Yaeger. We’d be out there from early afternoon until dusk enjoying each other’s company. The adults all talked at once and we kids would horse around with one another until somebody would get mildly injured and start crying. My dad would make us settle down for a little bit, which was basically taking a time out to rest, but then we’d be right back having a good time.
My Aunt Mary and Uncle Gene were night owls, as opposed to my Aunt Helen and my Uncle Marshall, who went to bed every night by about 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. My folks weren’t ready to settle in for the night by nine, so we would often take a ride over to Mary and Gene’s on Madison to visit. They were always happy to see us, no matter the time. Even after my mother died, and we’d go to Litchfield, we stayed true to form and would visit them later in the evening. Aunt Mary had five children, 19 grandchildren and who knows how many great grandchildren, and her living room and dining room were filled to the ceilings with pictures of all those kids. We had plenty to talk about.
My Aunt Ruth was about 80% deaf, like her dad. She was married to my Uncle Eddie, who was a maintenance engineer at St. Francis Hospital in town. You couldn’t tell Ruth you liked something in her house, because once you said you liked it, she’d want to give it to you. I can remember her forcing dish towels on my mom one time. It may sound cliché, but those were good times. And man, she sure could cook! That lady could make an apple pie to put you on your knees and thank the Lord!
And speaking of cooking, my Aunt Helen was fabulous too. Heck, all my aunts were. We’d go over to Aunt Helen and Uncle Marshall’s place there on Lincoln, and Helen would never sit down to visit. She was too busy taking care of us. She was real hyper, and it made her happy to serve us as guests in her home. I have to mention too that she and Uncle Marshall were nuts in love. Boy, she always thought he was the cat’s meow, and vice versa. They never did anything inappropriate, but you could just tell. Today, at 92 and 94, they are both in the nursing home over on Illinois Avenue, and still nearly inseparable.
There were some not-so-fun times in Litchfield too, as my Uncle Bob was a very ill alcoholic, but I’m not going to dwell on those times. I’m also happy to say that he conquered that problem and was sober the last 10 years of his life. I like to focus on my fondest memories of when Uncle Chris, Aunt Pat and our family would all come down from Waukegan and visit the family in Litchfield.
My Aunt Mary, Aunt Helen, Aunt Pat, and Uncle Earl survive their parents and brothers and sisters today, and I’m happy to say that we’re going to trek on down to Litchfield this August for another visit. It will be one of the first times in a few years we’re not actually going for a funeral. I still have plenty of cousins down there to picnic with, and maybe we’ll take a ride out to the cemetery too.
Litchfield might not be much to some folks, but it’s a world of wonderful memories to me.
Why is it that…
Last night as I was lying down to sleep and after I said my nightly prayers, I got to thinking about what I might write about in my next blog. I have always had a curious mind and have often asked the question, “Why?” Here are some observations that I’ve made in my lifetime.
Why is it when you’re in a public bathroom, and there are 20 stalls or so, and you choose a stall far away from everyone else, that someone else comes into the bathroom and chooses the stall right next to yours? Now remember, there are at least 15 stalls to choose from, most of them far away from you, but she chooses the one next to you. Why is that? Doesn’t that seem kind of strange? Just askin’.
Why is it that whenever I have diarrhea and I tell my stepmother, she asks the question, “What color is it?” She does this with my snot too, by the way. Why is that? Why is it necessary for her to know the color of my excrement? I’ll tell you why! My stepmother can diagnose whatever ails you by the color of your void material! My poor dad can’t take a private trip into the bathroom without her reminding him not to flush. What is that about? Apparently, if your poop is dark black, you may have a bleeding ulcer or cancer. This is definite if there’s blood in it. If your poop is a yellowish dun color, you have the stomach flu. I don’t remember what green means. Where she gets this? I do not know. She also becomes concerned if you don’t poop after a couple days, so she keeps tabs on that for my dad too. I find that a little disturbing, and wonder if I’m going to need to know the color, texture and frequency of my husband’s poop some day. I guess it could happen, but I sure hope not.
I have a lot more things I wonder about; not just bathroom things. Like why do people pierce themselves, especially their tongues? What is the pleasure in that? I’ve been told it’s for sexual reasons, but I can’t imagine putting myself through so much pain for sex. But then again, maybe others would. Isn’t it bad enough when a person asks, “Do you want fries with that?” than to say, “Do you mant fried wit dat?” I’m just sayin’ they sound like they have a mouth full of change.
Why is it that every time we make or break camp, it’s raining? I don’t think anything more about that needs to be said. I don’t want to anger God, that’s for sure.
Why have six remotes? Isn’t our technology advanced enough today that we can do all the things we need to do with just one remote? I mean we need to change the t.v. channels, watch DVD’s, record VHS tapes to DVD, digitally record t.v. shows, play CD’s, turn on the fan and operate our computers, so why can’t we do all that with just one remote? Why hasn’t just one universal remote been invented? Wouldn’t that make things easier? This is just another one of my “why-isms”.
Why is it today that many young people feel that they have to wear their pants half-way off their butts? Who came up with this fashion idea? I’m just not getting that one.
Why do people still smoke? This is a big one for me. I can’t understand after all we’ve learned about smoking and the harm that it causes to the smoker and everybody else who has to breathe in the smoke, that people are still smoking. And why do young people start smoking? That’s weird. I can understand older people have the habit, and it’s a tough habit to break, so they don’t quit for whatever reason (maybe they can’t), but after all we know about smoking, why do young people start up? That’s just strange to me. But I digress.
Why is it absolutely unfathomable to touch your seat partner in an airplane? Why is that? About a month ago, I was on a very scary flight, and without thinking, I touched the arm of the gentlemen on my right. I was immediately apologetic to him, feeling I had committed a very big no no. It just isn’t politically correct to touch your seat neighbor. How come? Why did I feel the need to apologize so profusely to him? Who knows and who made up that rule?
Why is it that after my Uncle Marshall accidentally dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the American Legion Hall floor while carving it, we still ate that turkey without flinching? It’s not like there wasn’t more turkey. I think we had three birds all together that year.
When you’re pregnant, why is it that everybody and their brother’s uncle’s cousin feels a need to touch your stomach without your permission, and they do it? It’s “anything goes” when you’re pregnant. Aren’t there any rules to follow? If not, why not? They don’t touch your boobs, at least they didn’t when I was having babies. Heck, maybe things have changed and they do touch your boobs now. Maybe that rule is out the window too now.
Why is a food that is as good as corn on the cob so messy and difficult to eat? Why can’t it taste lousy and therefore be undesirable like Brussells sprouts or asparagus?
There are some questions that just can’t be answered I guess. Still, I wonder… I guess I’m just an incessant smart alec. That’s the rumor anyway.
The Next One, and Then Some
Although Tom and I had initially talked about having a large family, after the drama of having Kelli and her being somewhat of a difficult baby, I would have been happy with just the two. Tom had other plans though; he wanted another son. When Kelli was four months old, I discovered I was pregnant again. Unfortunately, on August 13, 1987, I lost our little son at 16 weeks gestation. It was a very difficult time for us, as anyone can understand.
After that loss, I was sure I did not want to become pregnant again, but Tom truly wanted another son. Since he had been so good with the kids and around the house, I realized that I could not in all good consciousness say no to him. Besides, I had made a promise to him before I married him in the Catholic Church, that I would “not prevent him from having the children that he wanted,” so I agreed to have just one more.
Again, I became pregnant right away, and happily on November 1, 1988, Cynthia Marie was born.
Cindi was 7 lb. 15 oz. and 20 inches long. After two very challenging babies, I was ready for an easy one, and Cindi did not disappoint. By the time she was three days old, she found her thumb, and at nine days, she was sleeping from 11 p.m. until 6 a.m. What a dream come true! She was the apple of my eye. She was four days old before we realized she had beautiful red hair. Cindi would prove to be a very easy mannered baby. I felt I was ahead of the game, so Tom and I decided three was enough, and I had a tubal ligation procedure to prevent future pregnancies. By this time, Tom and I were no longer looking for a manual, but thinking of writing one ourselves!
Then I got a crazy idea. As all three kids got into school, I began to long for a baby again. Yeah, I know, I know! What in the world was I thinking? I believe this was the beginning of my mental illness actually.
In December, 1995, I underwent a tubal reanastomosis (tubal ligation reversal) surgery. Over the next three years, I would undergo several uncomfortable and awkward tests to determine why I wasn’t getting pregnant.
A day before my birthday, November, 18, 1998, I felt a strange, foreign sensation, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t have any pain, but perhaps I felt a little light-headed. I was three days late but didn’t think anything of it. That morning, I went to my boss and negotiated an early lunch so that I could go to my doctor to determine what might be wrong. Less than an hour later, I sat on the examining table, completely dumbfounded, as the doctor reported to me I was pregnant again, and he was almost certain this was an ectopic pregnancy. I couldn’t believe it! Aren’t ectopic pregnancies supposed to be really painful?
I called Tom at work, and he left immediately. I called my parents and tearfully gave them the news. They asked me if I wanted them to come too, and a little embarrassed, I waled, “Yeeesssss!” Then I called my boss, Bob Powers. I couldn’t contain my tears to Bob either and knowing he was a a devout Catholic, I asked him to pray for me. He said, “Hold on a minute, Terri, let me shut my door.” A moment later, Bob came back on the line and said, “OK, Terri, we’re going to pray together now.” I bowed my head, tears streaming down my face, as Bob recited the most beautiful, heartfelt prayer I could ever imagine anyone saying for me. It touched me beyond words.
Shortly after, Tom met me at the doctor’s office, and together we walked over to the hospital to get ready for surgery. That time is a little fuzzy for me. I can’t remember if they did an ultrasound to determine if the baby was stuck in the fallopian tube or if they just went ahead and did the surgery. One would think I would remember such a thing, but it just isn’t coming. All I remember is the doctor telling me there was a 20% chance the baby was going to be ok, and an 80% chance I would lose it and the tube too. As expected, we lost the baby, and I would spend four days in the hospital recuperating followed by a six-week stint at home with my little ones. My desire to have a fourth child dissipated like a chilly wind in mid-May. I was done; I had had enough.
So there is our family. I have to say we are happy. We’re not perfect by any means, but we are happy. Family is a lifeline for me. The other day I had a heated discussion with my sister about the breakdown of the family in these wonderful United States of America. I know that sounds like a Latter-day Saint talking, but it’s not all about my religion. It’s how I really feel. I have often told my children that unfortunately, most of their friends will one day let them down. Most friends are temporary, but your family is forever, and when things get rough, your family will always be there for you to help you pick up the pieces and get rolling again. At least that’s been my experience.
God bless America and God bless the family!
Kelli
Kelli Margaret was born on December 4, 1986, two weeks late, at 6 lbs. 10 oz. and 18 inches long. She was so tiny, so much smaller than her brother, but she would turn out to be a triple handful!
I delivered Kelli via C-Section after 21 hours of labor. We were trying for a VBAC, which is a vaginal birth after Cesarean, but my body just would not progress, so after a couple hours of begging, my doctor finally agreed to deliver her. I had a local anesthetic, and therefore was wide awake when Kelli was born. This would be a very different experience than having Tommy, because I had a general anesthetic with him, fast asleep.
The moment Kelli was born, she began to cry, and I didn’t know it in all my happiness and bliss at the time, but getting her to stop crying would be one of my life’s greatest challenges. Tom was in his glory, so happy that we had a baby girl. He watched the whole surgery from start to finish, and as soon as she was out, he got to hold her. He brought her near me, but not near enough in my opinion. This would be the beginning of what I would consider a lack of bonding, and this lack of bonding would impact my relationship with her the rest of her life. Make no mistake about it though; I loved this baby so much. She had coal black hair, fondly reminding me of my mom.
Once again, we went through the business of counting our baby’s fingers and toes, and once again, we could be thankful for a perfect little being. This time, though, because I had a local anesthetic, I did not get Kelli for over 12 hours. The time leading up to our first visit with her was filled with me being left to lay on my back so that the spinal injection site would heal properly and I would not have the horrible spinal headaches that can sometimes come with a local anesthetic.
Unfortunately, while I was supposed to be lying on my back, the fill-in nurses in recovery moved me onto my side several times at my request. I was so high from the anesthetic, I had forgotten that I was not supposed to be moved. The fill-in nurses in recovery must have forgotten too, because they moved me at will. Consequently, my spinal injection site did not heal properly, and I would experience earth-shattering spinal headaches for the next six days. As a result, I was not able to hold or care for Kelli without horrific pain, and I only actually got to have her twice during that seven days; hence, the lack of bonding between mother and child.
During one of the two visits with Kelli, I tried to nurse her. That was a fiasco. She did not suckle to me easily and cried and screamed the whole 45 minutes. The nurses helped me and she finally got her fill. Oh I forgot to mention that I had not planned to nurse her. My doctor went on vacation right after delivering Kelli and although it was in my orders, the nurses forgot to bring me my breast milk dry up pills. So I had no choice, but to nurse her, as I suffered severely with heavily engorged breasts and headaches to kill to boot. The nurses tried to talk me into nursing her on a regular basis, but with the headaches, I could not even consider it.
Finally on Day 6, a doctor I did not know performed a blood patch procedure on me. He put me in a twilight sleep, drew blood from my hand and patched the spinal injection site with it. Before that procedure, I was pretty sure that I was going to die. I called my dad up and told him that I loved him. I could not remember the last time I had ever told him I loved him, but with me being certain that I wasn’t going to make it, I thought I’d better let him know. After the blood patch procedure, I was in recovery for about an hour. Almost instantaneously, my headaches disappeared, and I wondered why this procedure hadn’t been done on me sooner.
On Day 7, I was released along with my newborn baby girl. She must have wondered, “Who in the world are these people anyway?” Tom brought the car up to the hospital entrance, and he would spend the next 45 minutes, trying to get Kelli to stop screaming and thrashing long enough to get her belted into the car seat. And that is no exaggeration. I just sat on the bench waiting for him patiently and calmly but oh so naturally crying right along with my baby. People would stop and stare and smile at me sadly. Many seemed to know my angst.
Finally, we would get to my cousin’s house to pick up Tommy and try to start a new life together with two kids. Kelli cried during the ride, which was a new one for Tom and I, because Tommy had loved car rides so much. We got her out of the car seat and into my cousin’s house, and she would continue to cry for the next year or so. She would cry especially hard when someone other than Tom or I would hold her. She was a real gem and making my life a living nightmare.
This time, our baby did not suffer from colic, but it didn’t matter, she would cry anyway. She would cry during bath, in between meals, and especially during visits with family and friends.
When Kelli was six weeks old, I went to work for Underwriters Laboratories as a word processing operator during the second shift. It was a part-time position, 30 miles from home, and I worked from 6 p.m. until 11 p.m. Monday through Friday and from 7 a.m. until 1 p.m. on Saturdays. This gave me the opportunity to be home with the kids during the day and Tom would take care of them at night.
Even on weekend nights, Kelli would have nothing to do with me. She was a Daddy’s Girl through and through. Only Tom was “allowed” to hold her in the evenings and even sometimes during the day. She still would not allow anyone other than Tom or I to hold her, and that would remain true until she was a year old.
She sure was a cute little thing though. I loved her as much as I loved my son, but a little differently. This was my baby girl, even if she didn’t seem to think much of me.
When Kelli was three months old, she showed signs of growing a little hair. She had about oh three strands of hair or maybe four. I was so excited about it, that I put a little barrette in her hair, but soon regretted it. I accidentally pinched her poor little head in that barrette, and she screamed bloody murder at me. Man, she was pissed! She thrashed around so much that I had a hard time getting the barrette out, but finally was able to. Those tears streamed down her little face as though someone had tried to take her out. Soon, I would discover that Kelli’s hair was never meant for barrettes. I think she didn’t grow a full head of hair until she was about nine years old.
So begins the story of Baby Number 2. Oh yes, little Tommy loved his baby sister. He wanted to hold her and kiss her at every whim. I have a picture of Tommy peaking over the bassinette at his sister and smiling at her. And I can’t close this blog without mentioning how helpful he was to me too. He was an awesome new diaper getter, and when the swing would stop, and Kelli would wale, he would run around the apartment trying to do whatever he could to make her stop. Finally, he figured out that if he pushed the swing back and forth manually, her crying would curtail.
This all sounds like it was such an awful ordeal, and believe me, there were times when I thought I would tear my hair right out of my head, but Kelli really was a sweet baby; so cuddly and playful and a good little eater too. She had a smile to break your heart, and she sure loved her big brother. It broke my heart to leave my babies each afternoon to go to work, but we had just bought our first house and really needed the second income to cover all the bills.
And so our family was growing, and we were elated!
On Becoming a Mother or Terri Becomes a Woman
On June 23, 1985, I underwent a metamorphosis. I was a new woman. Reborn, as it were. On that early Sunday morning, I became a mother.
Tom and I had been married just three short months, when I discovered I was pregnant. It was certainly a joyful time, but also a scary one. My husband was just 20 years old, and I was only 22. We’d had a large traditional Catholic wedding with a full Mass. Our reception was one that our guests would remember fondly for years to come, with 150 guests, a family style dinner, a versatile DJ and an open bar until midnight.
My mother was gravely ill, succumbing to metastatic breast cancer fast. Sadly, she would live only 15 more days. Still, I have wonderful memories of that awesome day. After my mother passed away, I became quite lonely, as we had been very close, as close as a mother and daughter could possibly be. I longed for her, or for something that I could love as much as I loved her. So, I got the wild idea that my new husband and I should have a baby.
Tom was not quite 20 when we were married. What a good sport he was! We probably would have waited to get married, but both of us dearly wanted my mother to be able to attend our wedding, so we moved the date up. Tom had not planned on having a baby so soon after our marriage, but as he would many times in the future, he agreed to my cockamamie idea.
My husband barely had to smile at me, and we discovered I was pregnant! It was a normal pregnancy, with the expected morning sickness, GERD and quickening at four months gestation. I was in my glory!
On June 22, 1985, in the early morning hours, just one year and eight days married, I began to have very light, easy labor pains. I thought, “This is going to be a breeze!” How naïve I was!
After 26 hours of labor (2 hours of pushing), my sweet little son, Thomas John V, was born by C-section, at 8 lbs. 5-1/2 oz. and 22 inches long. I was in love all over again! When the nurse handed me my quivering newborn son, I was a bit nervous, wondering when they were going to provide the manual to me too. But I thought to myself, how will I hold him and hold the manual at the same time? I’d work it out! I could do anything! I was a mom now. I missed my own mom very much, but I knew after the ordeal I went through having this little perfect being, I could do anything!
As soon as the nurse left the room, Tom and I got to the business at hand. No, we did not nurse our new baby and no, we did not cuddle him and welcome him into the world. I laid this little thing down on the bed and quickly began to remove his clothes. My husband didn’t quite understand what I was doing, but as soon as I said, “I’m going to count his fingers and toes,” he was on board. Together, we practically tore at this poor little baby’s sleeper and finally got him down to his diaper. We were both relieved and thankful to count 10 fingers and 10 toes. Everything else seemed to be in order, except there was one strange thing on this baby that I didn’t quite recognize. What about this little spouty thing here? Was that?! Could that be? I had never seen an uncircumcised penis before. I couldn’t be sure my son was 100% o.k. My young husband took one quick look and assured me that our son was perfect. We quickly redressed him and rested and marveled at this new little creature, while I waited for the nurse to bring me the manual. It would be an extra treat to get a PowerPoint presentation too.
As you already know, the manual and PowerPoint presentation never surfaced, much to my chagrin. I wondered, “How can one be entrusted to the most important job in the world without a manual?!” I was gutted! I guessed I would have to rely on trial and error and the help of my sister, a mom of two by then. My father wasn’t going to be any help, for at the time, I didn’t think he knew a thing about parenting.
While in the hospital, recuperating from the C-section delivery, my baby was cared for during nights, and I was left to rest. I had no idea what I was in for. The first night we brought little Tommy home, I fell asleep quickly with the sweet little sleeping child next to me in the beautiful bassinet we had especially purchased just for him. Two hours later, in splendid slumber, I would hear the strange and far away sound of a bleating lamb. I would wonder when the annoying lamb would stop its whining just as it got louder. I can remember suddenly realizing, “Oh my God, what have I done?” I was totally not prepared for interrupted sleep, but I would soon find out that I could look forward to many sleepless nights of frantically turning the pages of Dr. Spock’s Baby Book, and my poor husband walking the little waling bag of poop from the front of the apartment to the back over and over again.
After three solid months of apartment walking, late night baths and 2 a.m. car rides, our newborn son seemed to settle in pretty well. I even thought he might like us a bit. He turned out to be a pretty easy going fellow after all. His precious baby smiles and coos made me quickly forget that 26-hour labor and all those sleepless nights of trying to figure out what he wanted from us. Yes, I would forget all that drama… for another blissful 15 months, until the second one was born…
