This blog is to address the many emotions and milestones associated with being a mother. At some point in the lives of her children, a mother can feel rejected. Sometimes it is inadvertent, sometimes purposeful. I will share my own experiences and insights on this very universal subject.
I expelled my first two children. The second two were surgically removed.
This time of year brings with it a multitude of memories. One that comes to mind today is of a visit to Costco with my oldest daughter who was three years old at the time. That year, in the Christmas toy/decorations section was a pre-karaoke style setup with an old fashioned microphone hooked up to speakers. You could sing along to Christmas songs or go solo.
The microphone happened to be set up on the floor and was adjusted to just the right height. Without prompting, my daughter stepped up to the microphone (which, as it turned out, was live) and proceeded to sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer from start to finish. I watched as people shopping realized this was not a prerecorded singer. Some of them looked around to see where the singing was coming from. The microphone was placed part way down an isle and she wasn't visible if you weren't in the right place.
It tickled my heart to see and hear my daughter take such and action. She had no idea what effect she had on those shoppers that day.
Here it is near the end of February 2010 already. I am reminded of an event from 34 years ago. The birth of my second son.
Having done the "birth thing" once before, I figured I had it all worked out. I had done my "head on the floor and butt in the air" exercises when it looked like he might present breech. I reasoned this worked because, in essence, I turned him upside down to what he was accustomed to. In any case, he turned before he was too big to accomplish the position change.
With son #1, I had to do back-bends whenever he stretched. Son #2 didn't cause such phenomenon so I reasoned he was smaller. All the equipment had stretched before, so this should be an easier birth, right? Well, my theory didn't take into account son #2's head was bigger. So, I had to push the little guy a bit harder.
We had an alternate Lamaze coach since, as a firefighter, Dad worked 24 hour shifts. Working 24 hours on and having the next 24 hours off caused a rotation of scheduled days of the week. The alternate coach was also backup insurance in the event Dad was working on the day of the "coming out" party. As events would have it, Dad was available, so our trusted friend stayed to care for son #1 instead.
When contractions starting coming closer together, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke Dad up to go the hospital. Subsequently, I was aggravated when he proceeded to take a shower and shave at a snail's pace. The previous birth had taken a long time, so he was in no hurry.
Dad's intuition was right and we were in labor most of the day. I didn't hyperventilate this time and was able to relax, focus, breathe, and let the uterus do most of the work. The staff was impressed and asked if four student nurses could observe the birth (drug-less births were still a novelty at the time). I agreed.
At his emergence, son #2 was an instant celebrity. He suddenly had four "Aunties". Dad spent more time at the doctor's end (he was studying to be an EMT with the fire department and took advantage of the on-the-spot experience) instead of at my end in support. And everyone got to hold the baby before I did.
There I was, rejected again. That is, until feeding time.
After my short stay in the hospital, I took my new son home. Things were going just fine. I had gotten the hang of nursing.
My son was long and lean, so he was easy to bathe. Newborns seem small compared to their genitals right off. At least, that's the case for male babies. When his aunt changed his diaper, she commented on his "big balls." I just said, "He takes after his father." (her brother)
One of the biggest surprises I had as the mother of a newborn came when he was about three days old. I went to change his diaper and found it full of this black tar-like stuff. Talk about a shock! My son seemed fine but I called the pediatrician anyway.
I had to wait till the end of the day when the doctor called me back. Apparently, a baby's first bowel movement is like that. After all, they are hooked into mom's plumbing before they have their coming out party.
When the nurses first brought my son to me, I felt helpless. I had cared for young children and a few babies before, but had never experienced a newborn. He was long and skinny. This would seem to explain the need to do back-bends when he stretched in utero.
I just held him and looked at this miracle. I felt I should say something, but what do you say to a newborn? I found myself assuring him that I would take care of him and that everything would be alright. I chose to nurse as nature intended, but found that the nurses had given him sugar water when I was resting, which complicated the effort. He was uninterested when they brought him to me and would rather sleep. My first "rejection."
Later, when family came to visit, I felt even more "rejected." I heard them coming down the hallway discussing their new nephew, grandson, etc. They went to see the baby first! How could they? Hadn't I put in all that effort to bring him into this world? Didn't I deserve a little credit and congratulations?
Of course, they wanted to see the baby first. He was brand new. Me, they had met before. I had been special when I was pregnant but now that the product had been delivered, they wanted the toy to play with. Such is life.
After viewing the newest member of the family, I naturally came next. There were discussions of who he favored and hadn't I done a good job, and all of that. I realized they still loved me.
Life had changed for me at that point. I realized I had super powers now. I had mom-spit.
My first pregnancy miscarried. It was disappointing and we were supposed to wait three months before trying again to let my body heal. Only two months later I was pregnant with my first son, non-the-less. I realized after a time, that if I hadn’t miscarried, my first child would have been someone completely different.
When the time for delivery was growing near, we prepared by attending Lamaze classes. This was fairly new in the 1970’s. I liked the idea of having a natural birth and nursing the “old fashioned” way. I wanted to do the very best I could for my baby. I also started wishing he could get out as easily as he got in. I had never done this before. I had all the head knowledge and none of the practical.
I was near term when a nurse at the teaching hospital where I had my appointments tried to convince me that I was overdue. My calculations put me right on schedule. But, being young and inexperienced, I let them talk me into having an amniocentesis. The procedure was new and I should have been wary when they had me sign a release. I had already dropped, so the technician had to force the baby’s head back up in order to take the sample of amniotic fluid. Supposedly, they were checking to see how developed my son was at that time. (He was born the day the tests were supposed to be ready.) Later I realized they were practicing on me.
The time finally came and we went to the hospital. My contractions slowed down, so they gave me shots to speed them up. As soon as I received the injection, I had an immediate contraction. I hyperventilated when I did the breathing patterns. I wasn’t dilating.
Finally, I got into a breathing pattern that worked and stopped needing to breathe into the paper bag. I still wasn’t dilating. They sent me in for an x-ray to see if there was any size issues. Have you ever tried to hold still for an x-ray during a contraction? They had to wait, of course, until I stopped doing Lamaze. I heard one of the technicians say, “Looks like a ten pounder.”
I had barely weighed a hundred pounds pre-pregnancy; this didn’t sound good.
I was wheeled back to my room. The doctor came to check on me. I heard him tell the nurse at the door that, if I wasn’t ready by the time he finished the C-section he was about to do, he’d go ahead and do a C-section on me. By that time, I was ready to throw in the towel. I thought to myself, at least it will be over soon. I relaxed. By the time the doctor came back to check on me I was crowning. We went into the delivery room and everything came out all right. And he was only an average seven pound baby after all.
Motherhood is something many women share in common. It comes to us the first time in a most unique experience that can bring with it a myriad of emotion. Suddenly, we are the one in charge of this new life and the responsibility can seem quite heavy.
The fears and concerns soon dissipate with practice and “friendly advice” and perhaps reading up on the subject. There are plenty of special moments of bonding with this new person you helped make but have never met before.
Love for your child goes through many stages. Protective, teaching, disciplining, wearing many hats to cover all the needs your child has. Eventually, you have to let go. Usually this happens when your children grow up and go their own way. Sometimes, it happens sooner, as in my case.
When my boys were small, their father and I separated. Having married soon after graduating high school, I conclude that we simply grew in different directions. Had we gone to counseling and made a true effort, things might have turned out differently. As it was, things fell apart.
There were many factors leading up to the final event of my delivering my five and three year old boys to the custody of their father. It was the 70’s and a rare thing for a mother to turn her children over to the father. Originally, I wanted to have joint custody, but we were at two different sides of the country, and I didn’t have the income to send them back and forth. I didn’t have any marketable skill to speak of at the time.
After trying to file for divorce myself and botching it and getting the paperwork thrown out of court, I told the boy’s father to do it from his end. As it turned out, since his state wasn’t a no-fault, irreconcilable differences state, we made me out to be the bad guy. I felt he was a good father and since they were boys, I felt they needed to grow up with their father. Some people said I had no right to see my boys after that, that I had given them up. I didn’t give them up; I let them go. There’s a difference.
Today, I am the proud mother of two daughters who have been very precious to me. God smiled on me and now I know how Job must have felt after losing his whole family and being restored. The new children God gave him didn't replace the lost ones, they were gifts of their own value.
I am not bitter over the time I lost with my boys but I am sorrowful to have missed so much of their lives. I had hoped that when they became adults, they would see things differently and would come to me with questions. There are stories of when they were little I want to share with them, a part of their history.
