Hello, Baby!

We are grateful to God to be blessed with another little child in the family.

Hello, World!

On Saturday, my youngest son and his wife called to ask me a couple of “labor” questions, and then called the obstetrician. They next called sister Sydney to come and watch their 3 ½ year old son, and they headed for the hospital to meet their new daughter for the first time, face to face. She came into the world late that night. Tiny, bright-eyed and strong.

Izzy loves Annabelle

We went up to see the baby yesterday, arriving just a little after 1:00 pm.

I’d like to share a few pictures with you, and some thoughts on babies and new life. I doubt that anything in here is original. Birth is one of the greatest wonders of the human experience. We are all kindrid spirits when it comes to such a miracle. Nevertheless, I offer these thoughts to you:

Though Bill and I missed seeing my grandson meet his sister for the first time, we did get to see it on film. Big brother has been anxiously awaiting his new sister for months now, calling her by her name (one of the lovely things about modern technology and learning the sex of the baby before birth).

We were told that he ran back and forth in the room for a minute, until he could get his excitement under control. Then they sat him on the bed beside his mamma, and put the baby gently in his arms. He sang a song to her. “I love you Annabelle, o’ yes I do…” Twice.



There's something about a man who knows how to handle a baby.



Lots of people get teary eyed when they first behold their tiny new family members. I do, and some of my mushier daughters do. Looking into a newborn’s eyes absolutely melts me like warm butter on a summer day.



Grandfathers have a knack for rocking babies. At least, my husband does. He always has. There’s nothing quite like observing a professional, well seasoned father doing what comes naturally.

Good fathers (…eventually aging gracefully into granddads…) are incredibly sexy, by the way.



One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten little piggies.



As I said earlier, we’re grateful for another child in the family. Ten fingers and ten very long toes! But I also meant, we are grateful for this particular child. There's only one like this one. Sure, she may come into this earthly kingdom with Mama’s eyes or Aunt Joie’s gentle disposition or Grandpa Bill’s energy, but she also brings into the family her own special way of participating with and contributing to the family, and later, the world.

You may remember a certain TV mom who used to tell each of her children, “I love you best,” as she tucked them into bed.

I could always identify with that. If you’ve got several children, you know what I mean. The one you love best is the one you’re with at any given moment. (Of course, if you’ve got them all there for the holiday dinner, it’s the one who talks to you while helping you clean the kitchen. All of mine always help, so what am I saying?...I have to say that or else...)



The whole beautiful family.

 


I want to leave you with this verse from Psalms. It's good to remember the author of life at a joyful time such as this.



Psalm 139:13-16 ESV 

For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.


deber

Judging Mothers

I don’t think I’d been in the craft store for more than five minutes when I heard lamenting of Biblical proportions coming from the opposite end of the store.

It was a classic four year old melt-down. Five minutes later, it had not subsided. After 15 minutes, the mega-tantrum was still in full bloom, and I decided to mosey over and nonchalantly check things out, making sure the kid wasn't broken or being beaten or anything. Maybe I could encourage the poor mom with a smile. I don’t know…something.

The scene I stumbled upon was one I had seen before. One I have experienced before, I might add. Many times. Permit me to describe it to you in detail:


This thirty-something mother was trying to shop with her three children, two young sons and a daughter. Mother had a list which she was pretending to be looking over, but I suspected that she was just maintaining a calm exterior as she melted inside. She pushed the cart slowly as her youngest child, a beautiful dark haired little girl, sobbed bitterly, her fragile heart obviously shattered into tiny pieces like cheap glass on a tile floor. Deep, salty rivers streaked down her red cheeks from her eyes and from her nose. "Please, Mommy," she begged. "I want it! I need it. Please buy me that doll. I NEED HER! Waaaaa!" (Sob, sob, and so on and so forth.)

The stoic mother remained visually calm as she robotically repeated the words, “No. You don’t need another toy.” Meanwhile, her daughter continued to fling herself from side to side in the cart, lunging at the doll which was by now at least two isles away.

The two older brothers, wise in their youth, walked bravely and silently on either side of the cart. The whole event had the dirge-like feel of a New Orleans funeral, with piped in oldies playing in the background, instead of a home-grown blues band. It was somewhat poignant for me, believe it or not; I thought of my own children and how they had mourned over toys not bought.

At this juncture, I must add this “aside” about dolls and me. If you know me, you know without my saying that I wanted to buy this kid the doll. There’s nothing quite like a little girl and her baby doll. Little girls learn how to be mommies by playing with dolls. Besides, I’m a seasoned mother and grandmother, well able to be manipulated by tiny broken hearts and sobbing four year olds girls.

After all, I almost died for my brand new Tiny Tears when I was only three years old. (I hope I haven’t already told you this before!) She fell from my arms, and I dove into Little Lake Joe after her. My dad had to save me from drowning. I remember him pulling off his shirt as he ran into the water towards me. He carried me ashore, breathless and blue. Lifeless, they thought. But not giving up, an old man in the gathering crowd held me upside down until the water drained from my little lungs. Then I wanted my doll, so Daddy swam out to the middle of the lake to rescue Tiny Tears as well. My life was complete.

Back to the story at hand:

Once I saw that everything was normal and determined that the mother was not only not abusing her child, but was a living saint, I decided I must depart. I got in line and waited.

Soon I heard this twangy voice behind me saying, “Well!” (…deep breath in through the nose…) “That’s just bad parenting!”

I stood there in silence for a moment, pondering what to do. I could either say something to defend the saint-mama or be quiet. Again, if you know me, you know I couldn’t just stand there and let that lady criticize Saint-Mama. I turned only slightly towards the voice behind me. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see two thin, red painted lips tightly pursed in parental condemnation.

“You know, I don’t think it’s bad parenting,” I said slowly. “She’s doing the best she can. Kids have different personalities, and some are…”

“It’s bad parenting,” she interrupted.

“Well,” I said, persisting. (It was already time to pull the 8 Kids Card on her. I’m never above pulling the 8 Kids Card when necessary…it’s the undeniable privilege of having a big family…)“Well, I raised 8 kids, and I can tell you that some of my kids were well-b…”

“Well, I have raised TWO kids and they NEVER acted like that,” she said, her shrill voice raising at least two decibels. “If they had, we’d have gone right home. Then and there!”

I turned around and looked fully at her. Those little red lips were flexing now, ready for action. The Two Compliant Teenagers stood beside her, life-sized tin soldiers behaving perfectly, evidence of Sixteen Years or so of Obvious Superior Parenting.

My face was reddening. My blood pressure rising. I had two choices. One, I could say what I was thinking, which is seldom a good thing. I don’t like public confrontation, even when I am right. “People with two compliant kids are always experts on how everybody else should raise their kids,” I was thinking I should say. (My husband remembers it as “You had the luck of the draw, lady.” Because the rest of the afternoon I had told him everything I thought I should have said…). Or I might have simply said, “Are you serious?”
Option Two, I could turn back around and just let it go. Peering into the eyes of the friend standing next to her, I thought the friend was silently trying to convey something. I'd like to believe her eyes were saying, “Please. Say it…please!” But I think she was saying, “Don’t let her get to you, honey. You can't reason with a woman like this."
So I chose to say nothing. My face broke into a funny, uncomfortable smile and I closed my ready mouth and turned around. You know, they always say, “Silence is Golden”. They forget to add how painful it can be…

Why am I sharing this with you? Well, two reasons:

First for people who see a scene like that taking place in public: Have mercy. You probably had a tantrum or two when you were a kid. It’s part of growing up. Don’t tell me it isn’t. It is.

Then, for moms who are in the midst of the moment: Don’t listen to those people who are talking behind your back saying things like, “Why don’t she get control of that youngin’. I’d take him out and whup him” (That is what some folks say down here.) Or they say, “That’s just bad parenting,”…ignore them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

Be brave. Never give up. And don’t give in.
This is temporary, I assure you.

Some day they’re going to be all grown up, and they’ll say, “Mom, how did you put up with me for all those years.”


And you’ll say, “Oh, you've always been a good kid.”