I had been given a clear understanding that this child would need my love and devotion in her life. But what soon became even more evident was that I would need her love and support to carry me through some difficult years. That daughter has now graduated from college and is making a wonderful life on her own. I cannot imagine what my life would have been without her.
Cindy Barksdale
Fingerprints
From our first date during our senior year of high school, through college graduation, fourteen years of marriage, and the births of four children, my husband and I have been inseparable. Two against the world. We leaned on each other for support and backed each other’s decisions. Until the summer of 1997.
That summer I began to feel a tug on my heart in an unexpected direction. I’d been aware for awhile of the many little girls orphaned in China due to China’s one-child policy. My heart was drawn to their plight and filled with a desire to do something for at least one child. This desire intensified when our “baby” turned three years old. Our children were growing up so quickly!
And we had been so blessed—first of all to be born in the United States where material things abound and freedom is taken for granted. We had a strong marriage, a healthy family, good jobs and a nice home. We also had an empty bedroom, fully stocked with every item of baby paraphernalia known to man. To me it was an obvious decision. We were the perfect family to adopt a child.
I broached the idea to my husband, hoping it would be as obvious to him as it had been to me. After all, we loved kids. We’d admired the beauty of Asian children for years. We’d even joked about “when we adopt our little girl from China.” And I knew he was also aware of how blessed we are.
“Are you crazy?” His vehement rejection of my idea shocked me. “Don’t you think four kids is enough? Besides, we don’t have that kind of money!”
No reassurances on my part convinced him one iota. He honestly thought I had a screw loose. I repeatedly tried to explain my logic to him. But time and again over the next weeks, he countered with all the reasons we shouldn’t adopt. The rift caused us both tremendous pain. In the past, when we’d disagreed, we’d always been able to find some middle ground. But this time there was no such thing. You can’t adopt half a child.
When all my logic got me nowhere, feeling utterly helpless, I began to pray. Not only for the baby who by this time seemed alive in my heart, but for unity between us. As much as I longed for a child on the other side of the world, I wanted a stable marriage even more. If adoption was really the right path for our family, then a power higher than my own was going to have to notify John. And so far there was no sign of that happening.
Depression compounded by guilt filled my days. Guilt because I knew I should be content with the four little blessings that I had already. I carried on for their sakes, comforted by the daily routines of meals and laundry, hugs and squabble arbitration, yet haunted by the conviction that we should be doing more in this world.
I knew that to do right by another child, my husband would have to enter into parenting wholeheartedly, and not just to please me. That seemed an impossible dream. But I had heard stories of other couples who had resolved similar dilemmas. I decided to pray and leave him alone to mull things over. My naturally optimistic nature watched hopefully for any slight sign of change.
Many times during those long slow months, I wondered if I was crazy to be nurturing such a dream. Yet every time I resolved to give it up, God placed another reminder in our path. Once it was a TV documentary about China. Another time a beautiful Asian couple in a restaurant. Another time a busload of Asian teenagers swarming onto an usually quiet beach.
It seemed adoption was not meant to fade from our minds. So I waited. Prayed, fiercely at times: “Remember all those motherless babies over there, Lord. Remember my arms that ache for another child. Remember us.” And finally, after an endlessly long wait, a miracle began to happen. My husband began to ask questions about adoption. Barely daring to breathe, I’d answer, affecting a nonchalance that I was far from feeling. I’d mull over each casual question for days, afraid that I’d attached too much significance to it.
But then another question would come. And another. As we talked, he shared his fears over adopting from China—the paperwork, the two-week stay in a foreign country, the possible special needs of the child. We began to discuss Korea—the adoption process is simpler there—less paperwork, a shorter wait, no travel requirement. The conversations were cautious, theoretical—leaving me simultaneously jubilant and riddled with uncertainty. Could he really be seriously considering it?
Christmas was approaching, and my husband’s mood still seemed miraculously favorable. When he asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I told him all I wanted was his fingerprints—for the criminal background check, the first step in the adoption process. To my surprise, he didn’t seem angry at my request. In the following weeks, he dropped hints that made me hope for a wonderful Christmas surprise.
And yet there were worrisome moments too, the normal kind of moments all parents have, with kids fighting, or vomiting or hunting lost shoes. At times like that, he would turn to me in a huff, “We don’t need another kid!”
“No,” I would say, “but a child out there needs us.’’
Several times during December he asked me to expand my Christmas list, probably hoping I would request a Crock-Pot or a computer instead of a child. I staunchly insisted that his fingerprints were all I wanted.
By the time Christmas Eve came, I could hardly stand the suspense. I vowed to graciously accept his decision, whatever it might be, but my stomach was all in knots.
In the midst of the chaos of four kids ripping gifts open as fast as they could, John casually tossed a tiny gift my way. With trembling fingers I opened it. Inside was a little gold key chain with a coin-shaped gold medallion on it that said, “God Keeps His Promises.”
It was a sweet little thing, and I forced enthusiasm into my voice to thank John, thinking maybe I’d pinned my hopes on something too big. My heart felt so fragile and fearful. Maybe all the hints of the previous weeks were just a fabrication of my hopeful heart. I tried to remind myself what an enormous thing I was asking of him. Maybe that dream-child from far away was not meant for our family.
But John was still watching me. Finally he said, “What’s on the back of the key chain?”
Heart thudding, I flipped the medallion over.
There, etched in the smooth gold on the back of the medallion, was a single golden thumbprint.
Mary Ostyn
Baby for Sale
When I took my baby daughter to the supermarket for the first time, I dressed her in pink from head to toe. At the store, I placed her in the shopping cart, put my purchases around her and headed for the checkout line.
A small boy and his mother were ahead of me. The child was crying and begging for some special treat. He wants some candy or gum and his mother won’t let him have any, I thought.
Then I heard his mother’s reply. “No!” she said, looking in my direction. “You may not have a baby sister today. They don’t have any more. That lady got the last one!”
Marsha Priesmeyer
For Now
On Mother’s Day I will have been a mother for exactly seven months. So I guess that makes me a New Mother—one of those starry-eyed creatures still overwhelmed by wonder at the miracle she produced.
I have several friends who are Old Mothers. They say things like: “Hope yours isn’t a whiner. Just wait till she’s a teenager. Better enjoy her while you can; she’ll be grown before you know it.”
I may make many mistakes in my life, but neglecting to enjoy my baby will not be among them. For now, she is all promise and all potential. And for a little while, she is all mine.
The day may come when I am horrified at what she chooses to wear on a date, but for now, she wears pink things with Zwieback crumbs and she giggles when I put on her undershirt.
She may someday fi
nd it embarrassing to be seen with me in public, but for now, she stares up at me from the grocery cart and reaches for me when people coo at her in the checkout line.
She may rush off to school one day without saying good-bye, but for now, her whole body wiggles with delight when I come into the room the first thing each day.
One day she will grow up and go on her own way, and that is how it should be. But for now, after a bath and bottle, I can cradle her all downy and drowsy against my neck. I breathe deeply of her sweet-soft baby smell and I exult in it, and will remember it—always.
Caroline Castle Hicks
Love in the Rearview Mirror
I found love in the rearview mirror.
Over the weekend, my wife, the boys and I were running errands in the minivan. But neither Jeremy nor Matthew had slept well the night before so they were exhausted.
During the ride, Matthew’s head started to bob as he fought to keep his eyes open. Soon, though, he fell asleep and his head dropped to the left, next to Jeremy.
At the same time, Jeremy, who was almost asleep himself, saw his brother sleeping and moved to the right to support Matthew’s head with his shoulder. And, in a moment that will never leave me, he turned and gently kissed the top of Matthew’s head, not knowing I was watching.
And, that’s where I began to worry. Because I knew that no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I wrote, I would never be able to capture that sacred, perfect moment when my sons became something else, something deeper than what we know. Something that sits quietly behind what we see waiting patiently for us to discover it. Something that can be found in awkward first kisses, mothers rocking their newborn babies, husbands whispering their wives’ names, and the quiet moments of courage and caring that happen all around and within us.
But, no matter how much I worry, I can’t stop searching for the words. Because love wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jim Warda
Breathe
Since I am an actively working Lamaze and parenting teacher, sometimes my students will call me at home if they are in labor and need a little help remembering how the breathing patterns go.
I was on the phone one afternoon helping a student breathe through a contraction when my pastor came unexpectedly to the front door. My then three-year-old son answered the door, and when my pastor asked where I was and what I was doing, my son calmly replied that “Mom was breathing heavy on the phone again. It’s her job you know.”
Thank goodness my pastor knew I was a Lamaze instructor!
Lynn Noelle Mossburg
8
ON
MOTHERHOOD
I lost everything in the postnatal depression.
Erma Bombeck
My Previous Life
The greatest sight one sees beneath the stars is the sight of worthy motherhood.
George W. Truett
In my previous life, before I was reincarnated as a mother of three, I wore clothes that fit and matched. I wore makeup and curled my hair every day. I had my eyebrows waxed and my nails done. But no one gave me graham cracker kisses. No one ever told me how pretty I look in sweats.
In my previous life, I read Time magazine and the newspaper. My repartee of regular television viewing transcended Arthur and The Magic School Bus, and I devoured all the bestselling novels. But no one asked me to read The Velveteen Rabbit at bedtime. No one ever requested The Little Engine that Could.
In my previous life, I had a career and friends who were more than three feet tall. People asked for my opinions and entrusted me with important projects and confidential information. I had conversations where not once was mentioned snacks or potties or play dates. But no one asked me my favorite color or why the sky is so blue. No one ever wanted me to sing.
In my previous life, I had a life. I frequented aerobics classes, restaurants and the theater. I hosted parties where the themes had nothing to do with Star Wars or Winnie-the-Pooh. I shopped for myself and slept late on weekends. But no one made me Valentine cards. No one ever gave me dandelion bouquets.
In my previous life, I traveled, and my destinations did not hinge on theme parks or swimming pools or nap schedules. The Mayan ruins of the Yucatan, snorkeling in the Caribbean, museum hopping in Italy, Kabuki Theater in Japan . . . these were my playgrounds. I was the queen of the road and my destiny. But no one asked me to push the swing higher. No one ever invited me to splash in puddles or roll in the snow.
In my previous life, I held my emotions in check. I did not stomp my feet or grit my teeth. I could not easily be diminished to tears or tirades. I considered my demeanor as laid-back and easygoing. But, no one made me care enough to cry. No one ever just loved me, anyway.
In my previous life, I was free. I could carve my own path and follow my dreams. Nothing stood in my way. But the path was unsure and the vision blurred. No one ever gave me purpose enough to soar. Now, I endlessly rearrange piles of laundry, crumbs and toys. I am pulled and tugged, hassled and harassed, stepped on and sat upon, and desperate for some solitude. I am jean-clad and juice-stained, bleary-eyed and graying, underpaid and overwhelmed. And, sometimes I wonder who I am and what I’ve become. Then, one of my children shouts, “Mommy, I need you!” and it is perfectly clear.
I am the center of the Universe. I am MOM.
Gayle Sorensen Stringer
Good to Be Home
Years ago when my three boys were just wee ones, my old high-school friend, Marge, invited me to lunch at her home in a nearby upscale subdivision. She was a teacher, had never married and had recently purchased a condominium.
The minute I walked into her home, I knew there was something different about it, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I put my finger on the kitchen counter while admiring her tile, and realized what was so different. The counter wasn’t sticky. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there wasn’t any peanut butter oozing down the kitchen cabinets, no Kool-Aid puddle on the floor or cookie crumbs on the place mats. No one had left the half-gallon carton of milk out or put the mayonnaise back in the fridge without the lid.
After lunch, we sauntered into Marge’s living room to sip our coffee and reminisce about the “good old days” and ponder “whatever happened to?” I was immediately struck by the fact that her stereo turntable cover didn’t have fingerprints of assorted sizes all over it, and none of her records were warped from being used as Frisbees.
When Marge gave me directions to the bathroom, I made my way up a flight of stairs which weren’t covered with Hot Wheels tracks, slinky toys or yo-yos. Being the only female in a house with four males, I always approached bathrooms with caution. I carefully opened the door and there was no potty seat to be removed from the toilet. And—wonder of wonders!—the seat was down. I peeked behind the shower curtain, and there wasn’t a turtle or frog to be seen in the tub—just a pretty bottle of perfumed bath crystals where usually I saw a soggy box of Soaky Fun Bubbles.
After a delightful afternoon of bringing each other up to date on our lives, I bade Marge good-bye, each of us promising the other that we would do this more often. I climbed into my clunky station wagon and headed home, wondering what series of crises would be reported to me by the sitter upon my arrival. It always seemed that when I treated myself to a day out, I was penalized by having to deal with all sorts of mishaps, spillage, clutter and fights that had occurred in my absence. The highway stretched before me, and I slowed my speed trying to put off the inevitable. I felt vaguely sorry for myself. I dawdled in the grocery store, not knowing what to get for dinner.
No one was in the yard when I pulled in, and the dogs didn’t come out snapping at the grocery bag. It was suspiciously quiet inside the house, and I called out, “Where is everybody?”
“In the bathroom,” came the reply.
“Great,” I sighed. “What is it this time?”
When I went to the kitchen to deposit the groceries, it was noticeably free of dirty dishes and food morsels.
“
We cleaned our room and the kitchen and now we’re giving the dogs a bath,” my eldest proudly proclaimed, as I approached the bathroom wondering what was going on.
Our two black Labrador retrievers were totally immersed in Soaky Fun Bubbles and, upon seeing me, leapt from the tub; two white clouds with white tails, knocked me to the sudsy floor, each bestowing a slurpy “welcome home” lick on my face. The three little boys and two big dogs thought this was wonderful entertainment, and we all slipped and slid around on the bathroom floor, bubbles everywhere, laughing hysterically.
I surveyed the ridiculous scene around me, and for some reason I couldn’t explain, I felt sorry for Marge.
Jackie Fleming
THE FAMILY CIRCUS By Bil Keane
“The phone is ringing, the door bell is chiming, the
dryer is busy and the oven is dinging.”
Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.
Everything Old Is New Again
The nicest thing about being a mother is that you get to relive your childhood. Everything becomes an adventure, whether it is chasing a cricket across the grass, going to the zoo or reading a favorite book, snuggled under the covers. Motherhood came easily to me, and I enjoyed the challenges of raising a family.
I am the mother of three boys: Phillip, my serious, intense six-year-old; Ryan, four, my little ray of sunshine; and my live-wire Adrien, who at eighteen months seems to have developed more ways of getting into trouble than a nine-arm octopus. They are the joy of my life and I have loved every roller-coaster day of being home with them. To our surprise and great joy, we recently found out that we are expecting another child. Since this is my fourth time around, I thought that I would not be fazed by an experience characterized by uncontrollable fatigue, hormone surges that would leave me in tears at the slightest upset, and bizarre urges to eat oranges at night, baked potatoes in the morning and curried chicken all day long. A miracle still, but an everyday miracle rather like the sun rising in the morning and setting at night.