“Mom, come quick—the baby won’t stop crying and the dog just died!”
***
Our first baby. The baby we didn’t know we desperately wanted until we learned he was on the way. Twelve years into our marriage, the news surprised us.
That was the first surprise. I discovered during the hottest summer in twenty-five years that a pre-born is a portable heat generator. Our dishwasher rolled over and died. I couldn’t tell if the cloud was smoke or me steaming. I’d never have believed I’d be seen in public wearing a Hawaiian muumuu and no makeup.
One surprising fact followed another.
You can tell a baby’s gender by looking at the mother’s tummy: “Look how low you’re carrying that baby; that means it’s a girl.” Two minutes later: “Ah, you’re carrying it low. It’s a boy.”
Set a pregnant lady through a crowd of people, and they part like the Red Sea. Later, let the same lady approach a heavy door with baby in arm, stroller, diaper bag, purse, portable crib/playpen, changing pad and guitar, and she’s on her own.
A pregnant lady’s belly is fair game to perfect strangers to lay hands on.
Our childbirth coach said there’s no pain, only pressure. We should practice breathing and visit our Happy Place (excuse me a minute while I have a laughing fit). When we showed my doctor our detailed birthing plan, how we expected things to go, he had the oddest smile…
Labor was not exhilarating as the coach claimed, but boring. I was too uncomfortable to read or do cross-stitch. I can’t believe I even took a book and my cross-stitch project along to the hospital! Did I think I was going on a retreat? Ten hours into it, I decided I’d had quite enough. An unpleasant shock came when I remembered there was no way out but through.
The hoo-hee-hoo-haw breathing caused hyperventilation. I wanted to hurl the relaxing music recording I’d spent months compiling. The radio provided a better diversion. When the doctor announced he needed to perform an episiotomy, I relinquished the job to him until he hollered, “Hey, don’t quit! Your hardest work begins now. Push!” I couldn’t rally my strength till the nurse pointed out the song playing on the radio: “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”
I knew nothing about babies. Didn’t know you can get lost in newborns’ eyes, nor how fragile they are, nor how slippery when bathed. I never imagined how terrified I’d be to get sent home with a car-full of paraphernalia, a first-time father, a human being to raise, and my own inadequacy. But the optimist in me whispered, “How hard can it be? You’re bigger, stronger and wiser, and you’ve listened to Focus on the Family for five months straight.”
After we got home, our first night went downhill fast. I never knew a tiny baby’s vocals could reach ear-damaging decibels. We tried changing, feeding, holding, a car ride, rocking, singing and praying. Twice. We pulled out the baby swing. He screamed as he slumped over. We added pillows to prop him and wound it up. Taco, our nervous rescue dog, followed the swing with her head: backward, forward, backward, forw—then her eyes rolled back and she toppled over, lifeless. My husband sank to the floor with his head in his hands. The baby screamed. I picked up the phone and called Mom.
My folks arrived in minutes, all smiles and confidence. Taco had only fainted from stress. Mom swaddled her newborn grandson in a blanket and rocked him, singing low, patting his back. His tiny hand gripped my dad’s finger. His crying ceased. “Rest,” they told us.
Peace descended.
My husband and I were as swaddled as our little son.
“The Lord your God is with you…He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing” (Zephaniah 3:17 NIV).