Tender Beginnings

How come nobody ever told me?
--That there's this whole new way
of falling in love just laying in wait
for new parents to discover...


                                              Tender Beginnings


Oh, David.  You can't say "no" to me now.  You won't playfully push me away, refusing the needs of my affections:  Those hugs and kisses that already bind and embarrass you.  You're sleeping..., so calm, so content.  So quiet…  I've had to maneuver my way across all the day’s tokens -- such debris! -- your scattered alphabet blocks, story books, a miniature heap of cars and airplanes, around your rocking horse, and over your Playschool ice-cream cart, just to stand by your crib-side and claim what my day has earned me:  This moment of silence, the rising and refreshing peace, the solitude, and you.

I am so self-indulgent.  Look at me here, tears streaming down my cheeks again, blotting big damp spots on your daddy’s fresh handkerchief.  He would laugh at me now if he saw.  --Not that he doesn’t feel the same way sometimes.  I’ve caught him with that smirkie grin, battling hard against sentiment when you’ve smiled up at him just so, or done something adorable in the presence of others.  But your daddy, he works so hard at mastering  his feelings, especially those that threaten his “manly” reserve.

Me, I'm a lost cause.  I've resigned myself to learning about all these new feelings.  --Especially about sentiment.  About welling-up over the littlest things.  About breathing deep and blinking hard again and again, trying to hide unexpected waves of pleasure, when you do something perhaps as small as to smile and “cooooo” at a grocery store clerk amidst a small group of onlookers.  I’ve struggled for control too.  I’ve even tried hard to master a short list of absolutes.  I promised myself when you turned three months that that was that --  I’d just had it with all the sloppy sentiment. Then again, when you turned nine months and I figured you were done with most all of your “firsts”, then many more times before you turned a year.

I am getting better though.  I no longer steal you away from your crib while you sleep, while the whole world around us is dark, all wrapped up deep in unassuming slumber, just to hold you…, to rock you gently, to whisper ever so softly into the tiny folds of your ear, watch the tickling of my breath bring the hint of a smile to your lips.

You know, I’ve had friends who shared with me special moments with their children  -- a first tooth,  first step,  maybe a first word, or something unexpectedly cute that happened in some sweet, random way -- and then they’d say, “…tears came to my eyes,” or, “it made me cry.”  And  I’d force a sympathetic smile, all the while believing they must be drastically exaggerating, or nuts!  Their stories all sounded  just too trite, too corny.  But, David, it happens!  Someday you’ll know it too.  Tears…, and wide, wide smiles, and a deep kind of aching in your throat, and heart.

I remember the day that we met, almost minute by minute in fact.  I’d worked so hard to get you here that, when the instant finally came -- my eyes squeezed shut allowing me greater concentration in coping with those last, most difficult contractions -- I almost missed it.  The doctor told me to -- quick! -- look in the mirror, and as I did, I caught sight of your tiny head, your face turned to the side showing me only a shadowy profile.  Your body wasn’t even born yet and already you were crying.  Such lusty, loud protests!  I had waited so long to hear you cry.  Then, because labor was hard and very long, as often as I’d feel myself being overwhelmed by anguish and despair, I’d force myself to remember just why I was there, then I'd silently chant over and over again, “I want to hear my baby cry…”  Wouldn’t you know, when the moment finally arrived, that my very first words to you turned out to be a drippy kind of, “…Oh, don’t cry…”

Then your body slithered from mine.  The doctor told me I had a boy, and I remember feeling slightly disappointed.  You see, your daddy had wanted a girl, and even though, in earliest pregnancy, I really hoped for a boy, I guess that as time went by I kinda let myself get caught up in his enthusiasm.  Especially when my tummy really began to bulge with your fullness, I felt a need to identify you by name so I could conjure-up some mental picture  my little “Molly Beth” as I spoke to you in conversation.  Your dad and I would  “think pink!”, and I remember once splurging on this very expensive pink and white sleeper, delicately adorned with ruffles, ribbons, and lace.  I brought it home and showed it to your daddy, pressing it to my tummy, and I remember how we laughed, then, at our reflection in our bedroom mirror.  I’d lay it in our bed between the pillows, blur my eyes, and try to picture you there sleeping, letting the sleeper define your dimensions, and glory in the certainty of this soon-to-be-with-us daughter. 

Our fantasies fulfilled now, however altered, the pretty pink sleeper would have to be packed away; our little boy was here.

The disappointment only lasted an instant, and then I was filled with wonder.  I felt this incredible bliss, and fullness, and spiritual oneness.  It was as if God were right there in the room with us, filling in all the usual voids.  The nurse had laid you in a tiny crib on wheels with clear sides right by my head, and I watched you thrash about, your little arms and legs moving quickly, stretching, exploring all the way out, then quickly retrieving in confusion, utterly lost in our world’s vastness.  Your tiny eyes were wide open, scoping out your antiseptic surroundings, your mouth frowning periodically, probably from the harsh glare of the lights.  I felt so happy, and so very complete!  God’s masterpiece was to be admired, and your mother was taking in every detail. 

When the nurse had finally finished taking your feet and finger prints, and had taken blood from your heel, she wiped you off, swaddled you in a blanket, and offered you to me.  My mind raced -- I panicked!  What if you didn’t like me, or what if I didn’t hold you quite right and I hurt you?  I didn’t know what to do with you…, how to hold you…, what to say.  But you, you didn’t really seem to care.  You were gentle with my first feelings.  You didn’t squawk at my insecurities or mock my awkwardness.  You didn’t cry.  You just rested against me, visibly content, peaceful.  Ours was such a silent first encounter.  I couldn't think of a thing to say.  Yet I felt sure that you knew that I loved you.