Last week, I had the privilege of watching my first grandson be born:
A nearly 10-pound beautiful boy named Henry Calvin.
Even though I have had four children of my own, there is nothing that can describe getting to witness childbirth as an observer.
My daughter, Alena, had a very good pregnancy and labor.
As a matter of fact, it was all pretty textbook,
But that didn’t stop me from getting so stressed as she pushed that I thought I would pass out cold. I had to remind myself to keep breathing.
(After all, I was in charge of the video)
I just remembered so vividly how it felt to be in her shoes,
to feel so exhausted that you just don’t think you can do it.
I remember the feeling of your body being pushed to its max, of wanting to give up,
and how quickly you can go from that to the relief of the baby suddenly lying on your belly, squirming.
There was so much adrenaline in the room in the moment Henry first made his appearance.
So many things felt indescribable about it; One of which was the feeling you have as a mother, witnessing your own daughter go through it.
I was so incredibly proud of her.
She was strong, capable, and fairly silent.
I already know from watching her with her first daughter, Mavis, that she was born to be a mother.
She has impressed me in these last 2 years so much as I’ve observed the way she handled a baby, and then a toddler.
So many times, I have felt that I really must have done something right as I watch her seemingly boundless capacity for love, learning, and selfless caring.
My son-in-law, Aaron, started sobbing immediately.
While other families may have pools going about the date the baby will be born,
or what they will weigh, we could have a pool going about how long it will take before Aaron will cry at something touching.
He’s the biggest softie, quivering lip and all.
He took his new son and held him to his chest while my daughter began getting stitches.
I tried to stay as silent as possible.
I know what a privilege it is to be allowed to be there for the births, and I don’t want to step on toes or do something to wreck it.
So, I just stroked her head and whispered, asking if she needed water, or help with her gown.
I waited and watched, thinking about the whole picture.
Henry had just been born in room 7 of the hospital we know well.
That room has become almost magical for our family.
His own mother was born there 26 years ago,
followed by his Aunt Chloe,
his Aunt Tessa,
his Aunt Paige,
and his own sister.
I thought about each one of them, and the lives they would each grow to lead, unique and independent.
I thought about laboring there myself and how much I had no idea the way motherhood would change me yet the first time I did it.
Out of that room have emerged 6 precious members of our family, now,
and my first birth there began nearly 30 years of a whole different kind of labor.
The mother is the one who holds the things that no one else does:
Information, schedules, medication dosages, phone numbers, and secrets.
From the very first moment the baby is placed on her chest, a whole new her starts to take over.
Her body will be changed, she will lose sleep and hair, and her DNA will be permanently altered.
The challenges she will face will be innumerable.
Everything from how to get them to eat vegetables to how to convince them they are worthy of goodness.
She will sit up nights rocking them, praying they will just fall asleep,
and then she will wish rocking them still worked once they are a teenager.
From before they are born, her body will be a shield, protecting them from blows and wind chill while they are forming;
And afterwards, her body will still absorb pain many times as they cry to her with their head on her lap or shoulder.
Mothers of little ones still do not know the full extent of what they will be carrying away from the hospital.
It isn’t just sippie cups and lovies, or heavy sleeping bodies in from the car.
It is their child’s individual desires, aches, and unique history.
She will carry their pain and their hurts, and they will become her own.
She will carry the weight of separation as they pull away from her in middle school.
She will carry the betrayal of the first time they tease her as a teen.
She will wear the weight of the times she knows not to say anything.
There will be pain in some “yes”es, and in many “no’s.”
So many times she will not want to give them,
but this is just the thing about being a mom:
To take it on means knowing it won’t always be easy.
The enormous amounts of good and beautiful will be met with a whole lot of hard and heavy.
These were my thoughts, as I watched them sew my daughter up.
Dad held the baby with a body no worse for the wear.
A grin was the only change for his body.
Then the doctor said, “Do you want to see the placenta?” and when my daughter said, “Yes,”
She held it up and began to explain the miracle of it in detail.
“See this? This was your baby’s home. See?
The inside where the baby was is smooth and perfect. But look at this!”
She turned it around to reveal a rough, bumpy side, and said something I will never forget as long as I live, while she held up the visual:
“See. This side is rough and bumpy? The ugly side faces the mother.”
I felt a gut-punch. Boy, does it ever.
What a picture of mothering.
What a picture of what we women take on, and all the parts that touch us.
We bear what is often hard and ugly to provide as smooth an environment as possible for our children. We push ourselves beyond exhaustion. We sacrifice our minds and our bodies.
My daughter doesn’t know yet how true that sentence was.
She has years, hopefully, until she really gets it.
But standing there in that room, watching her have her child in the same place I had her,
really brought me there to face it after coming back full circle.
I have been faced with many ugly things as a mother.
I have been faced with their heartbreak and their bouts with bad anxiety and depression.
I’ve helped them carry so much: Boyfriend break-ups, identity crises, and crumbling friendships.
But I did it, and then I did it again.
A different blood supply for every daughter.
I have given all I had to make their side as smooth as possible, and I’d do it again in an instant.
Yes.
The ugly side faced me.
That is true, but, I was handed LIFE,
and what came of it was my greatest treasure;
And now my daughter continues on her own journey.
What a gift to have been there for the beginnings.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
