Thirty-four years ago there was a storm brewing. If you lived in MA then, you will know what I am talking about. It was the winter of ‘78 and I was waiting to deliver our first born in a few weeks. But like those unpredictable storms that year, this baby was not waiting around because some expert said that he should. Like most babies I know, he decided to begin warning us of his impending arrival in the middle of the night with contractions regular and strong enough by 5:00 a.m. to send us sliding over icy roads to the hospital.
Entering the hospital doors, the quiet drive and the gradual gray sunrise gave way to bustling staff and glaring florescent hospital lights. I was scared, but it was not about giving birth. While intimidating, subconsciously, I think I believed that my body would know what to do to bring this baby into the world, and if my body rebelled, there were experts to get the job done.
What I was not at all sure about was taking care of this new tiny life. There was never any internal debate about having children-- that desire lay deep in my soul—but over those months while my body grew and elbows and feet began to poke and prod my insides, it began to occur to me that I knew next to nothing about taking care of a child body or soul. There had been no younger siblings for me, and I had minimal infant babysitting experience. Fortunately one set of dear friends, Bonnie and Dave Haley, preceded us by six months so I observed carefully and took a few turns holding a newborn, but that was about it. Bonnie seemed to know exactly what she was doing while I felt clueless.
During those hours of labor, body and baby demanded all the attention I could muster in my sleep-deprived state. Chris will tell people that the labor and delivery went just like the books said it would (although saying it he made it sound so easy—WHICH IT WAS NOT!!!) All that said, Justin Marshall Richmond, arrived in the world around two in the afternoon healthy, all fingers and toes accounted for and at a good 7 pounds 3 ounces, but incredibly small to my new mother eyes.
Most of those first hours, Chris and I were together or there were nurses and other staff around, but when it was just the two of us, fear rose crept in. At the time, I think I was afraid that I would break him some way. It was all about the physical then. How could a being so tiny have every tiny part work together to keep his breath going and his heart beating? And even more, lying with him in my arms, his tiny face was a puzzle I could not solve. It would take time, for me to gradually begin to recognize the pattern that was Justin as pieces slipped into place.
And I stumbled along, Justin teaching me how to be a mom, until his sister could come along and help him with that work. It was not always an easy process, but somehow we muddle through together. I got a lot right, even with the mistakes made. The first time fears of trimming little tiny nails or giving baths, gave way to bigger ones. How do I teach a child to be generous and kind? What do you do when your son’s heart is broken for the first time? How do help a daughter deal with cancer? The list goes on, the fears change, but the realization comes that we help each other. Mother and child finding the way to navigate life. And of course, I was not doing this alone. Chris and I learned together to be parents—to support each other as we learned to be mom and dad, while still being husband and wife.
And so it goes, the cycle of life continues. Now married to the woman he loves with a career doing fulfilling, invigorating, creative work, and two little men to fill their hearts. The dance continues –the dance of mystery and discovery between parent and child goes on.
So Happy Birthday, number one son. Thank you for teaching me to be a mom. Thank you for being you. So proud..so proud.
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