Shock and Awe

Shock….

I couldn’t wipe my eyes, so I had no choice but to look through the prism of the operating room lights and my own tears.

I knew the crying was a good sign.

Joyful voices, not somber ones.

Tension replaced with calm.

I had given birth, finally, to my first born. And though he was “surgically evicted” after twenty-eight hours of labor, and though I was exhausted, impatiently I awaited the ‘Motherhood Miracle’ I’d eagerly anticipated for nine months.

You’ve heard that legend. The promise that at the moment of childbirth, the skies open and you are immediately embraced by the maternal genie. Then, the Celestial Singers or Chanting Cherubs perform the “You’re a Mommy Now” serenade, complete with fireworks and crashing cymbals. It happens every time.

On that March day, strapped to an operating room table, I listened, ignoring the background babble and beeping machines. And waited.

Nada!

“Mrs. Bevis,” a nurse whispered, touching my bare shoulder, “In a minute you can hold your son. He’s huge and I swear he already needs a hairbrush. I’ve never seen so much black, kinky hair in one place!”

“Really?” I mumbled, conscious enough to privately question how an OG/GYN nurse, who spends her days looking at women’s, well, looking at women’s privates has never seen so much black, kinky hair. Must be lots of pregnant, red-heads on this Air Force Base?

I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to sleep, not wanting to miss my chorale affirmation. Maybe they’re down the hall, singing another verse to the lady who at 3AM loudly threatened her mate with a homemade vasectomy, performed with her quilting shears and no anesthetic?

Husband’s deep voice wafted over the green, sterile sheet that screened my open belly from my blurred vision, “Donna, I’m so happy. Wait till you see him. We did great!”

“Hey, Husband, I’m happy too"-happy that you were able to pull yourself away from the Skipper, MaryAnn, and the three hour Gilligan Island marathon you watched half the night. “Yes sweetie,” I agreed, through dry, swollen lips, “we did great. So, was the Professor able to make a radio out of Ginger’s underwire bra?”

Dear God, please don’t tell me the lyrics to my melodic, motherhood message include:

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip.

“Here he is,” a nurse announced, handing me a swaddled bundle, “now you can introduce yourselves.”

“Hey, Charles, it’s Mommy and Daddy,” I blubbered, “We love you. You are all we hoped for. You are perfect!”

And I really meant it, given newborns don’t arrive bearing gifts of margaritas and nachos, which would have made him both perfect and clairvoyant.

My maternal genie never showed. The choir was AWOL as well.
Maybe they were irritated because I never wanted kids, knowing my childhood dream was to be John Boy Walton, without the icky mole, sitting in dimly-lit room writing? Maybe they were waiting for me to prove myself before they clanged the cymbals?

....And Awe

He stood on the altar, flanked by tuxedoed boyhood friends, awaiting his bride.
Why hadn’t he brushed all that black, kinky hair?

Unable to wipe damp eyes, my tear-streaked cheeks glistening in the flame of the candle I was holding-it was again the day he was born.

Fondly, I remembered the childbirth naiveté of that twenty year old girl who married the only boy she ever kissed. She read the books. Collected goodie-bags of nursing pads, hemorrhoid crème, and conscientiously attended the vital classes. Except the one devoted to Motherhood Genies and Other Tales.

Having labored through anatomy, she knew the particulars, but years of hearing Mom’s euphemistic childbirth comparison, “God opens a little window,” provided hope for simplicity of delivery…it was a lie! More like “God takes a little crowbar.”

Instantaneous transformation into maternal goddess …no so much. It takes work, patience, daydreams about joining the witness protection program.

Believing the first sight of your newborn unleashes unparalleled awe…false. All firsts do. First smile, steps, school, stitches, love, arrest. Arrest? Awe!

Clanging cymbals? Funny you ask, because tonight when Charles and I stepped on the dance floor, and he insisted his father join us in the traditional Mother/Son dance, the heavenly chorus finally performed; accompanied by the lyrics of the song my firstborn chose:

And we are led to those who help us most to grow,
If we let them , And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

How could he know I’d been waiting thirty-three years to hear those words?