Babies

I've made no bones about the fact that the first year of motherhood was hard for me.  I was tired, of course, and completely unsure of myself.  Completely surprised by where I found myself - as a mother.  I was terrified.  And I was anxious.  All the time.

I was terrified I would make a mistake.  Do something that would harm Gideon somehow - mentally, physically, emotionally.

I was terrified he wouldn't go to sleep.  Once he did go to sleep, I moved straight to worrying that he would wake up too early.  I wondered if I was feeding him too often and other times, fretted I was not feeding him enough.

I worried that he would cry in public.  Then I was scared he would cry when I was alone with him.  And sometimes I really thought he might just cry forever.

I worried that I wouldn't sleep - and, of course, I didn't.  I feared others were judging me - parents, friends, neighbors, other moms.  I was sure that I appeared to be failing to everyone - from my dad to the grocery store clerk - in the new role of mother I'd never imagined for myself.  I cried a lot.  I was big, hairy bundle of nerves, leaping from one anxiety to another.

But never did I realize just how severe it was until last week, as I sat holding one of my sister's five-month-old twin boys after he'd woken up from his last nap of the day.

I'd just put dinner in the oven and wiped down the countertops.  The house was quiet - my sister had taken the older boys out to run an errand and the other twin was still sleep.  So I sat at the kitchen counter, feet propped up on the seat next to me, Cole resting on the angle of my thighs.  I stuck out my tongue to see how he reacted.  I repeatedly bobbed my head back and dropped it forward when I discovered it made him giggle.  I looked into his eyes.  Watched him watch me.

And I realized I could not remember having ever done anything like that with Gideon or feeling that relaxed when alone with him.  Not once.  I was always so worried, so anxious, so busy trying to anticipate what awful thing might happen next, I was never able to just be with him - at rest, at ease, at peace.  And my eyes brimmed with tears at the realization.  You see, until recently, I really thought - or at least really hoped - I would get another chance to relish the sweet quietness of infanthood.  A do-over.    But I've let that expectation go, as you know.

So I decided during our visit to Montana that the next best thing to snuggling my own baby (this last week is when I would have had the baby we lost in February) was loving on my sister's.  So I held and rocked and patted.  I got down on the floor and cooed and ooohed and tickled.  And, a sure sign of a mother - one I never took myself for doing - I smelled babies' heads.  I marveled at how at ease I'd become with babies - even fussy ones.

One afternoon, I stayed at home with all four boys while my sister went out for a pedicure and the much-coveted solo shopping trip to Target.  Gideon woke up from his nap just as I was getting ready to put the babies down for theirs.  He sat by me on the couch as I held Jude and offered him a bottle.

Gideon was really good with the babies the whole time we were there - gently kissing their foreheads, kneeling down at their sides to talk to them when they got fussy, always greeting them eagerly when they awoke from nap.

So it wasn't terribly surprising when he looked up at me that afternoon on the couch and said, "But what happened to our baby?  When you had to go to the hostibal?"

He's asked about "our baby" one other time since the miscarriage in February, so I'd prepared myself that our visit might bring up the question again.

And, in an odd way, it actually comforted me to know that he remembers, knows something was lost.  Just like the other two members of our little family, he wonders about what might have been.

I repeated the explanation we've given since February - that the baby wasn't strong enough, healthy enough and, therefore, hadn't lived.  To which he responded, "But you should get a baby.  I want you to get a baby."

And I told him what I tell myself and others who ask these days - that we'd like a baby, but we just don't seem to be in control of that right now.  Then I suggested we say a prayer - something I still struggle with:  "Dear God, please see fit to send us a little baby brother or baby sister for Gideon."  To which Gideon added, "How 'bout a baby girl?" And we closed, "Amen".

And then I leaned down and took a good long whiff of baby head.