The malleability of my kids softens me as a mother.
A reflection on my older son turning six.
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When I was sixteen, a woman rumored to harness the spiritual gift of prophecy told me, “Someday you will have a son who will do great things.”
I gave birth to three consecutive girls from 2010 to 2017. Life felt complete. One spring afternoon, I sat on our porch swing cradling baby Veronica, with Felicity at my left. The air had thawed from winter’s long chill, and buds popped on branches of our crabapple and redbud trees. We were waiting for Sarah’s bus to drop her off from school, and in that span of maybe twenty or thirty minutes, I was awash in contentment and peace.
In the early months of my first three pregnancies, a thought niggled at me: Is this the prophesied boy? I’m not a superstitious person, but I am a spiritual one. I believe some among us are spiritually gifted and attuned to the supernatural. But that day on the porch swing, I no longer needed to know whether we’d welcome a boy into our family. It didn’t matter to me either way, because I loved each of my girls and their fierce, unique personalities.
But in July 2019 during a family road trip to Iowa, where we stayed with Ben’s brother and his family over Independence Day weekend, I sensed I might be pregnant again, though we weren’t actively trying to conceive. We weren’t religiously avoiding, either, like we had in between each of the girls.
It was too early to take a home pregnancy test, so I kept my suspicions to myself. And I thought I could maintain a staid poker face throughout the entire weekend. I’m not known for my ability to lie, though, and my sister-in-law asked me bluntly on our last day together, “Are you pregnant?”
She asked, I assumed, because everyone over the age of twenty-one was freely imbibing in alcohol, while I sat at the kitchen table, quietly nursing a scant glass of wine. Taken aback at her pointed question, I answered just as frankly, “I don’t know.”
And then all fell silent. (Actually, it didn’t, but what happened next is something I share exclusively in my memoir.)
When we returned home, I told Ben, “Well, I think it’s time for a pregnancy test.” And there it was, minutes later: two blue lines. This was the first drugstore test I’d taken to determine the likelihood of pregnancy, and I didn’t trust it. The statistical reliability of the blood tests from my OB/GYN’s office never left me with any doubt. So I took another home test. Same result: positive.
I wasn’t elated, but I wasn’t devastated, either. I counted the months between Veronica and this baby, if it was viable and born to term: not quite two years. That made me nervous, but I tucked my anxiety in the back of my mind and feigned unbridled joy to everyone who congratulated me. I took my prenatal vitamins, napped when my girls rested midday, nixed alcohol and sugar, drank copious amounts of water.
At my twenty-week ultrasound, the tech asked if we wanted to know whether we were having a girl or a boy, and Ben and I said in unison, “Yes!” Undoubtedly, a boy. The Doppler captured him spread-eagle on the screen. Definitely boy parts. I couldn’t believe it, yet I could. The incredulity of pregnancy amazed me every time: an amalgamation of terror and enthusiasm. Mostly anxiety, though.
You never know what’s going to transpire when you’re pregnant, and because of Sarah’s traumatic and dramatic entrance to the world, I hesitated to enjoy pregnancy too much, or relax into it. Instead, I needed to ensure I did all the right things to protect the growing fetus and nurture him with proper nutrients while avoiding toxins. I couldn’t live with myself if there was any doubt that my negligence may have caused a health concern.
The origins of Sarah’s Apert syndrome left me blaming myself, though I was assured that genetically, it was a fluke. I still convinced myself I did something to harm her, which informed my nervousness surrounding every subsequent pregnancy.
Everything unfolded normally with my fourth pregnancy, and Joey was born the day after a major snowstorm, on a Sunday. The Friday before, my hairdresser told me while snipping off my split ends, “Well, they say snowstorms put women into labor. I bet you’ll have this baby before the weekend is over.” She was right. Who knew that old wives’ tales held any morsel of truth in them?
I made my debut as a boy mom with Joe. He was the fussiest infant of my four, and I felt incapacitated most days. Then Ben and I learned he had a dairy allergy, poor guy, and he settled into regular patterns of sleep once we switched him to non-dairy formula.
The bond between mother and son felt different to me than when I’d held my girls. Boy moms told me that might happen, that there’s some magical connection, like between dads and daughters. Again, I thought that was a fable, but I experienced an element of truth there: Joey made me smile, even when he projectile-vomited on my shoulder. I felt softer with him, noticed my tone of voice was more soothing than I’d been with my girls. He brought out a ferocity to my maternal instincts that had been subtle but present with each of my daughters yet surfaced like a lion, or maybe a soldier, with this urge to protect him and teach him how to advocate for himself.
Joey is six now and entering the thick of elementary age. He has a fiery temper but also a magnanimous spirit and will easily give a sibling or a friend his favorite toy or snack or treat when he is in a generous mood. He is curious and loves to explore nature, especially digging in the backyard sandbox or playing in spring’s puddles or caking mud all over his face. He doesn’t care much for sports but loves Transformers and Star Wars and all things construction.
He also plays tea party and dress-up with his older sisters and once asked Felicity to paint his nails bright red while she coated Veronica’s in a sparkly pink. He devours bacon on weekends—usually seven to nine slices—but turns his nose up at fruit with skins, like peaches or apples. He still gives hugs and likes to snuggle, still says, “I love you, Mom (or Dad).”
Here are a few of my favorite quotes from Joey this past year. I record the funny or ironic or cute or wise sayings from each of my five kids, because I know I will otherwise forget all of it. It really is a flash raising children, especially when you have a small brood who are all in various stages of development.
“Auggie, how about we just sit on the couch and drink wine?”
“Dad, do you miss the barn?”
Ben: “What barn?”
Joey: “The barn you grew up in.”
“What if we get attacked by lions?”
Ben: “How many lions do you think live in Indiana?”
Joey: “Six to eight.”
Ben: “You need to wear a jacket today.”
Joey: “Can I wear a life jacket?”
Ben: “We’re nowhere near water!”
Ben to Felicity: “I’ll play the surf-rock version of Metallica’s ‘Seek and Destroy’ while I make pizza tonight.”
Felicity: “I’ll be in my closet, dying.”
Joey to Felicity: “Sissy, if you’re dying, then you can’t get your allowance!”
Motherhood has stretched my body and my heart. When I was sixteen, I didn’t imagine myself as a mother. In fact, the idea of pregnancy and childbirth and shrieking, needy babies repulsed me. I admit I lost myself—drowned, disappeared—during those ten years of childbearing. I opened myself up for another human again and again, and finally I am on the other side of it, whatever that means.
It means, I guess, that I’m finished giving birth to babies and have entered the period of time when babies become toddlers, then small children and teenagers. They are growing, and so am I. Motherhood happened to be the conduit for my interior growth, teaching me about myself as I interact with my children. The purity and innocence of a young mind tends to reflect the garbled complexity of my adulthood, and because Joey is still young and malleable, he softens me when I harden with burnout and time.
I needed my kids as much as they needed me, maybe more.
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As I sat here wondering what to write, tears became sobs. It's not because your piece was sad. It's because I miss my two boys, who are in their 40s now. Dang. I'll have to check my face before I venture out now. And now I'm laughing. I swear, I'm not crazy, just free with emotions.
He softens you while you harden from burnout…what a way to put it. 😭 this entire piece is so honest and complexly beautiful. Thank you for sharing. 💕