I helped my little one back upstairs and tucked her back into bed. The soft smile on her lips quickly faded as her breathing became slow and deep. I tiptoed out the front door, a smile on my face and her gift in my heart.
Kyle Louise Jossi
That Day
“What was the best day of your life, and what was the worst?” I remember playing that game with some friends on the way to a ladies conference a couple of years ago. Memories ran long as every detail was recounted. Laughing to the point of tears, the minutes raced by as we relived our labor and delivery stories.
“What was the worst day of your life?” I pondered that question for a long time. My life had been fairly steady up until that point, no lows ever outweighing the highs. I wouldn’t have trouble if I were asked that same question today. Just six months after that trip, I was shaken to my very core.
It was a cool spring day, and along with that little nip in the air were balloons, streamers and the giggly voices of fifteen precious children. The whole Mainse family was together for a birthday party for Rebekah, the youngest of the grandchildren, who was just turning a year old. This was not going to be a pool party, as was the custom, for the crispness in the air demanded jackets not bathing suits. Besides that, the pool, which had just been filled the week before, was a chilly sixty-five degrees and the gate was in the mandatory closed position. But that didn’t seem to dampen the mood as the swing-set was full and balls and balloons were flying everywhere.
The party hadn’t officially started yet but the children were quite happy just being together. The adults were, too, as they sipped coffee in the family room, mindful of the youngest children playing in the basement.
Sitting on a couch together, my husband Ron and I were deep into conversation. I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. This was unusual because he was not a big coffee drinker; one cup in the morning was more than enough. Yet, almost without hesitation, he said yes.
As I walked to the kitchen, I heard the laughing and squealing from outside growing louder. I smiled as I gazed out the window at the happy faces. As I took a mug out of the cupboard, my gaze fell again on the backyard. This time it stopped on the gate to the pool area—the open gate. Quickly, I scanned the pool and deck around it and saw no one. Relieved, I called to my husband to go out and close the gate. Even though the solar blanket was covering the water, the thought of children playing a few feet away was unsettling to me.
Reluctantly, Ron got up, tearing himself away from the conversation. I watched from the kitchen window as he sauntered outside, petting the dogs and tickling the children as he went. Finally, he reached the gate. As I poured the coffee, he pulled the gate toward him. He stopped. And so did I. Slowly, almost hesitantly, I watched Ron walk over to the edge of the pool. Puzzled, I stood, still holding the coffee cup in my hands.
The next few seconds felt like they were in slow motion. I watched from the kitchen window as Ron slowly pulled back the solar blanket. Suddenly, fully clothed, he jumped into the pool. My whole body went numb as I watched in horror as he lifted the limp body of our two-and-a-half-year-old son from the water.
Now I was on fast forward. I screamed like I had never screamed before, dropped the mug of coffee, and yelled, “Eric’s in the pool!” My legs had a mind of their own. I had to be out there. I ran through the kitchen to the nearest door and fought with it for what seemed like forever until I realized it was locked. Finally, I flung it open as hard as my strength would allow and ran across the yard. I was vaguely aware of adults screaming and running behind me.
By the time I reached the pool, Ron and Eric were at the edge of the shallow end. Eric was ashen white with bloody water coming from his mouth and nose. But that’s not all that was coming from his mouth. Crying. Beautiful crying. With that sound it felt like all of the energy drained from me and I slumped against the fence, sobbing uncontrollably. He was alive.
After Eric had thrown up an incredible amount of water, we stripped him, wrapped him in blankets, and took him to the emergency room. They took him right away, ran a number of tests, and kept him for a few hours for observation.
Today, Eric is a healthy, active four-year-old. Amazingly enough, one of his favorite pastimes is jumping off the diving board and swimming in the pool.
Thinking back, I can’t help wondering “what if?” What if I hadn’t suggested coffee to Ron? What if he hadn’t accepted? What if I didn’t notice the open gate? What if Ron didn’t notice what looked to be a bird or raccoon under the pool blanket and hadn’t gone over to investigate?
That day, one year ago, God not only saved our little boy’s life, but he did something just as important. He left his mark on it. Almighty God obviously and deliberately intervened in the life of our little family, leaving no doubt that he is in control.
Yes, today playing that game would be easy. You see, in a few short minutes, the worst day of my life also became the best.
Ann Mainse
I Wonder Now, What Moment
I wonder now, what moment, what year it was, what day . . .
When the word he called me, “Mommy,” just simply went away?
He was my little boy then, when that title was once mine . . .
When his smile was so contagious. When his sweet blue eyes would shine.
When he started kindergarten, it seems like yesterday . . .
“Please don’t leave me, Mommy,” I heard my little boy say.
“I love you, Josh. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be okay, ”
As I headed to the classroom door and slowly walked away.
The tears streamed down my face as I stumbled down the hall,
“Mommy?” I heard him ask for me. “Mommy!” I heard him call.
And at that moment in my life, the word became so bittersweet . . .
I still see his face, so angelic, his hair as blonde as wheat.
As he got a little older and in his room at play,
With his little brother at his side, I overheard him say,
“Our Mommy is a writer. She’ll be famous some day.”
I smiled to realize, through his eyes, the picture I’d portray.
The things little boys are prone to do he also did for me,
The weeds he picked as flowers . . . his face was etched with glee.
With dirt-streaked cheeks and beaming eyes, he was a sight to see,
More precious than red roses were those weeds he picked for me.
And time again betrayed me as it stole the years away,
He’d speak, yet rarely did I hear the words he had to say.
He must have called me “Mommy” then, a thousand times or more,
But I really wasn’t listening as I headed out the door.
Deadlines beckoned to me, and the rat race seemed appealing,
And blinded by my story lines I never saw time stealing,
Those priceless moments when little boys are small enough to play.
Oh, only if I could go back to taste one yesterday.
One day I overheard him say to someone on the phone,
“My mother is a writer now. She leaves me here alone.
But that’s okay. I’m on my way. I’ll soon be on my own.”
And suddenly my eyes could see a boy who’s almost grown.
Dear God, please? Could I go back? To hear the things he’d say?
To share his dreams? To kiss his cheek? To wipe his tears away?
To touch his face? To hold his hand? Dear God, could I erase,
Those years I wasted needlessly and put time back in place?
As he graduates from high school, it seems like yesterday . . .
When he was a little boy consumed with carefree play.
“I love you, Mom. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be okay.
He said before he headed for life’s door and walked away.
And still I weep for all those years floating on the winds of time,
For all the days and moments when a little boy was mine.
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Yet my longing is so futile, for in that little boy’s place,
A young man stands to kiss away the tears upon my face.
I wonder now, what moment, what year it was, what day . . .
When the word he called me, “Mommy,” just simply went away?
He was my little boy then, when that title was once mine . . .
When his smile was so contagious. When his sweet blue eyes would shine.
Lori Elmore-Moon
9
EXPECTANT
WISDOM
Before becoming a mother I had a hundred theories on how to bring up children. Now I have seven children and one theory: Love them, especially when they least deserve to be loved.
If I Were Starting My Family Again
The words burst from the man sitting across from me, his eyes pleading for help. “What should I have done differently? If your children were young again, what would you do?” He was suffering the empty, deathlike feeling of a man whose children have strayed. He felt he had failed as a father.
His questions stayed with me. What insights had I gleaned from my own experience as a parent and from my years of counseling others? If I were starting my family again, what would I do to improve relations with my children? After some reflection, I jotted down the things I considered most important.
I would love my wife more. In the closeness of family life it is easy to take each other for granted and let a dullness creep in that can dampen the deepest love. So I would love the mother of my children more—and be more free in letting them see that love. I would be more faithful in showing little kindnesses—placing her chair at the table, giving her gifts on special occasions, writing her letters when I’m away. I have found that a child who knows his parents love each other needs little explanation about the character of God’s love or the beauty of sex. The love between father and mother flows visibly to him and prepares him to recognize real love in all future relationships. When a mother and father join hands as they walk, the child also joins hands. When they walk separately, the child is slow to join hands with anyone. Sentimentalism? Then we need a lot more of it. Often there is too much sentiment before marriage and too little afterward.
I would develop feelings of belonging. If a child does not feel that he belongs in the family, he will soon find his primary group elsewhere. Many who live in the same household are worlds apart. Many children see their father only at the dinner table. Some never see him for days at a time. For others, father-child time together may be only a few minutes a week.
I would use mealtimes more to share the happenings of the day, instead of hurrying through them. I’d find more time for games or projects in which all could join. I would invite my children to become involved in the responsibilities and work of the family. When a child feels he belongs to the family, he has a stability, which can stand against the taunts of the gang and the cries of the crowd.
I would laugh more with my children. It has been said that the best way to make children good is to make them happy. I see now that I was, many times, too serious. While my children loved to laugh, I, too often, must have conveyed the idea that being a parent was a perennial problem. I remember the humorous plays our children put on for us, the funny stories they shared from school and the times I fell for their tricks and catch questions. Such happy experiences enlarged our love, opened the door for doing things together—and still bind us together. I would be a better listener. To most of us, a child’s talk seems like unimportant chatter. Yet, I now believe, there is a vital link between listening to the child’s concerns when he is young and the extent to which he will share his concerns with his parents when he is in his teens.
If my children were small again, I’d be less impatient if they interrupted my newspaper reading. There’s a story about a small boy who tried repeatedly to show his father a scratch on his finger. Finally his father stopped reading and impatiently said, “Well, I can’t do anything about it, can I?” “Yes, Daddy,” the boy said. “You could have said, ‘Oh.’”
I was once with a father who did not answer when his young son called to him again and again. “It’s only the kid calling,” the man said. And I thought it would not be long until the father will call the son and he will say, “It’s only the old man calling.”
I would give more encouragement. Probably nothing stimulates a child to love life and seek accomplishment more than sincere praise when he has done well.
I know now that encouragement is a much better element of discipline than blame or reprimand. Fault-finding and criticism rob a child of self-reliance, while encouragement builds self-confidence and moves a child on to maturity. Deep in human nature is the craving to be appreciated. And when those we love meet this need we will also grow in other graces.
So if I were starting my family again, I would persist in daily praise, seeing not only what the child is now, but also what he can be. I would seek to share God more intimately. We are not whole persons when we stress only the physical, social and intellectual. We are spiritual beings. And if the world is to know God and his will, parents must be the primary conveyors. For my part, I would strive to share my faith with my children, using informal settings and unplanned happenings. Rather than discuss abstract theology or impose rigid rules of family worship, I would pay more attention to the things my child notices and to what concerns him and find in these a natural way to discuss spiritual truths.
There is a story of a schoolmaster who once was asked: “Where, in your curriculum, do you teach religion?” “We teach it all day long,” he replied. “We teach it in arithmetic by accuracy; in language by learning to say what we mean; in history by humanity; in geography by breadth of mind; in astronomy by reverence; in the playground by fair play. We teach it by kindness to animals, by good manners to one another and by truthfulness in all things.”
I remember a little fellow, frightened by lightning and thunder, who called out one dark night, “Daddy, come. I’m scared.” “Son,” the father said, “God loves you and he’ll take care of you.” “I know God loves me,” the boy replied. “But right now I want somebody who has skin on.” If I were starting my family again, that is what I would want to be above all else—God’s love with skin on.
John Drescher
Children Are . . .
Amazing, acknowledge them.
Believable, trust them.
Childlike, allow them.
Divine, honor them.
Energetic, nourish them.
Fallible, embrace them.
Gifts, treasure them.
Here now, be with them.
Innocent, delight with them.
Joyful, appreciate them.
Kindhearted, learn from them.
Lovable, cherish them.
Magical, fly with them.
Noble, esteem them.
Open-minded, respect them.
Precious, value them.
Questioners, encourage them.
Resourceful, support them.
Spontaneous, enjoy them.
Talented, believe in them.
Unique, affirm them.
Vulnerable, protect them.
Whole, recognize them.
Xtraspecial, celebrate them.
Yearning, notice them.
Zany, laugh with them.
Meiji Stewart
THE FAMILY CIRCUS By Bil Keane
“Yeah, he’s still sleeping.”
Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.
Fantasy and Reality Clash with
Birth of New Baby
Fantasies play an important role in our lives, fueling hope and helping us believe in the possibilities of the future. While pregnant with my first child, I attended a series of lectures at Piedmont Hospital. At one of them a pediatrician spoke and showed us slides. “Now I’m sure you all have contemplated your life with a baby,” he said. “You dream of resting under the oak tree in the front yard, the beautiful baby sleeping peacefully by your side while y
ou sip a cold glass of lemonade. Here is the reality.”
He flashed a slide of a screaming, red-faced, runny-nosed infant with its tiny fists balled up in our personal fantasies. Not my baby, we thought.
Reality quickly sets in when we become parents. But we don’t lose our capacity to fantasize. It’s just that our initial fantasies change and we develop new ones. Here are some examples of my own.
Maternity Leave
Fantasy: Maternity leave will be a period lasting several months, consisting of blissful bonding with the new baby, and in my spare time, sewing balloon shades for the nursery, sending out engraved birth announcements with long letters to all the out-of-town friends and finally organizing photos from the past two years.
Reality: I have no choice but to bond with my daughter because she nurses for forty-five minutes every two hours. However, blissful is not the word to describe sitting on my couch for ten hours a day with my blouse hanging open. There is little time left for anything else besides laundry and changing diapers. The birth announcements are fill-in-the-blank ones my husband buys at the drugstore, and I find myself wishing I’d given my daughter a name shorter than Catherine Hamilton.
New fantasy: Getting to take a shower and eat lunch in the same day, and possibly getting out of my nightgown before noon.
Marriage After Children
Fantasy: Tom and I will become a joyful unit, more in love than ever as we sit peacefully at the dinner table, contemplating the beautiful baby we have created, and spending many happy hours dreaming of our future as a family.
Reality: My daughter thinks the initial clink of silverware on my plate is her signal it’s time to nurse.
New fantasy: My fantasy involves men developing the ability to breast-feed. I’m not sure what my husband’s fantasy is, but I notice that he spends a lot of time looking at the Victoria’s Secret Catalog, where the women don’t have stretch marks and I’m sure never suffered mood swings caused by postpartum hormonal imbalances.