The Archaeology of Motherhood

Children happened to me when I least expected it. This is not to say that my children were unintentional, far from it. They were fully intentional, fought for when the time came. Yearned for, cried for, a cause for sleepless nights when it looked like they might not be ours one day.

My oldest -- big-headed baby, fair-skinned, orange-haired.  Blue eyes.  When I looked into his eyes I thought of my great-grandmother who, I heard, always thought blue eyes and red hair was the most beautiful combination in the world. I remember this because my eyes are green. And not a beautiful green like clover or emeralds, but green like olives. I hate olives.

My youngest -- little angry grunter. My Romeo with his coal black eyes and eyelashes long enough to scrape the underside of the moon. I watch him work his magic with the ladies and see my future... unwilling confidante to broken-hearted girls whose calls he won't take.

When my oldest began to transition from baby to toddler, maybe a bit older, I went into a bit of a funk. I adored this precious baby and he was leaving me, growing into something different, someone different.  I loved the new guy, but missed the old guy, even grieved for him at times.

Suddenly I didn't see the point of motherhood. You have this blessing come upon you, care for him, let him consume you, turn your life upside down and suddenly in 18 years which seems more like 18 hours he is packing his toothbrush, his clothes, his favorite book, his condoms for heaven's sake! And you stand on the porch crying because he's leaving you. He'll head off into his life and you hope he will be a fabulous human being and you hope he will leave the world a better place than it was when he came into it, but the more likely scenario is that he will just be another mediocre human being with a big carbon footprint who forgets to call you on Mother's Day. Or worse.

During this time I was on a phone call with my husband's mother and I asked her. How does she reconcile that her son is all grown up? How can she bear that her little boy doesn't exist anymore?  Does she miss him terribly? Does she grieve for him?

I could tell by the silence on the other end of the phone that she was bewildered by the question. And subsequently I felt stupid and filled with regret that I'd even asked.

So, I put it out of my mind, or tried to, for months, then years. In unguarded moments the thought would peek around the corner like an evil leprechaun and plague me with more visions of crying on the porch. Eventually, my second son arrived and there were so many new challenges. No time to do much but put one foot in front of the other and keep on moving.

In the eighth year of motherhood, I was sitting on a hot concrete bench cooking up a dose of melanoma under my generous helping of freckles. In front of me was a baseball field covered with boys of all shapes and sizes. At my feet my youngest, age four, plowed a fire truck through the dirt. On the field was my oldest boy, heading up to bat.

With a crack, the ball he hit sailed through the air and a cheer went up from all the moms and dads and coaches. He began to run.  First base, second base, then something went wrong. I don't even remember now what it was because what happened next knocked every memory of that moment out of my head except one.

I see the image of him kicking up dirt as he grimly shuffles off the field to the dugout. One of the coaches catches him just as he crosses the baseline but before he can reach the dugout.  He grabs him by the shoulders and squares him up until their noses are about two inches apart.

I scooted to the edge of my seat ready, at the slightest provocation, to fly up on that coach like the most insane soccer-mom banshee from Hell. The coach started in. "Do you know what you did wrong?" My son nodded and looked down at the ground.

With a gentle shake of my son's shoulders he commanded eye contact. In the background I heard another crack of ball against bat and a cheer. It drowned out the conversation that held me, but suddenly the image was transformed for me. This man, talking to my son as he would speak to another man, demanding in a respectful way that he do his best, that he be his best, that he be a good team member, that he rise to meet challenges.

My fair-skinned boy with his delicate dusting of freckles, sun-kissed, set his lips determinedly. He nodded at whatever the coach had to say then stood an inch or two taller.

And then I saw it -- I saw the layers of him -- the baby, the toddler, the pre-schooler, the boy who graduated from kindergarten, the one who learned to read, the one who lost his baby teeth, the one who made it halfway to Home after hours and hours of batting practice. They were all there, transparent, three-dimensional, like nesting dolls.

The reason my question was so ridiculous, so alien is because my mother-in-law knew, but couldn't explain, that you don't have to grieve for your loss because there is no loss. This boy is just layers, like a rich archaeological dig, the sum of those layers of love, of discipline, of fun times, of hard times, of learning and experiences.

I watched the coach slap him on the back and send him into the dugout where he was jostled by his friends, all elbows and nudges. I smiled and drew circles in the dirt with my foot next to the roads my youngest was carving out with his truck.

"Yer messin' up my roads, Mom."

"Sorry, sweetie."

During the next round of batting my oldest was up to bat again. I was awash with a new found serenity. He sidled up to the plate and planted his feet squarely, rocking back and forth to get his perfect balance. Elbows up, a couple test swings. He nodded to the pitcher. Ready.

The ball flew, the bat sped forward, the batter's form poetry as metal met leather and with a loud pop the ball torpedoed between flailing players desperate to catch the ball.

My son began to run and I began to cheer.  I cheered for him, but I think now I might have been cheering more for me, for us, for a future free of looking back with sadness, but now only fondness, at worst -- nostalgia.  I cheered as he veered across second and didn't slow a beat, just like Coach had taught him. On to third, the coaches screamed for him to run. A slight pause rounding third and I slid forward on that hot, rough, blazing bench. Halfway to home, he turned to look back.  The ball was coming, coming straight for him, coming straight for home.

I leaped up and ran to the fence, hooking my fingers through the chain link and screamed, "Run run RUN! AND DON'T LOOK BACK!"

As he crossed home plate, I cheered for him, for us and his hands flew up into the air and he whooped.

And I whooped. Because that was the day I stopped looking back.

Fish Head

My oldest son is an old pro when it comes to fish guts. Last year my brother took him fishing and then showed him how to clean and cook the fish.  I was sure it would flip him out, but he did remarkably well and was even thrilled that he knows how to do it now.

I think we picked the right age -- maybe 7 or 8.  He's old enough to understand where food comes from and we've had discussions about hunting and fishing and how, in our family, it's not a "sport".  The rule in our house is if you kill an animal it's a guarantee you'll be eating it.

So, having been through this with one boy, I was a little bit lax on planning for the second. We'd been fishing with our youngest before and somehow in my mind I just assumed he already knew the drill.  He doesn't like fish, doesn't like meat much at all.  We call him "our vegetarian child", although his one big exception is hot dogs which he likes straight out of the fridge and with no bun.

Saturday Rob took the boys fishing with another Scout dad and his son.  They caught a ton of fish, most of which were too small to keep.  They brought home one catfish which Rob filleted outside his workshop on a nifty portable fish cleaning station he'd rigged up.

I was inside working on the computer and little while later the door opened and Tristan slowly walked in and closed the door behind him.  I knew something was up because when he comes in usually the door flies open and he enters the room with gale force and slams it behind him hard enough to shake the windows.

I turned to look at him and he walked slowly across the room, head down. I could see his bottom lip pooching out.

"What's wrong, buddy."  I held out my arms, inviting him in for a hug.

"I'm sad."

"Tell me all about why you're sad."

He pulled away and sat down on a short stepstool at the coffee table where he sits to eat his snacks or draw pictures.

"I'm sad because of the fish. They cut his head off."

Oh dear, I thought, how could I not have planned that out better.  Duh.

He kept looking down at his feet and swinging them up and down. His legs were filthy, no socks, ragged tennis shoes.  He looked like an abandoned, hopeless child.

He continued, "I just feel so bad for that lil guy..."

I reached out again and motioned for him to come to me and wrapped my arms around him. "I feel bad for that little guy, too.  I'm sorry you feel bad, but that's what happens when you eat a fish."

"I don't wanna eat a fish. I want that lil guy to still be swimming in the water!"

I half-smiled grimly and sympathetically.  "I know, I'm sorry.  You don't have to eat fish."

He eyeballed me accusingly.  "YOU eat fish."  That was the first time I'd ever heard him state a personal and deep criticism of who I am and what I do.  His mother, the Fish Eater.  I've gone through the standard, "You're mean!" or "I'm never gonna be your friend anymore!" during those moments when he was mad because I made him eat what was on his plate or made him clean his room or wouldn't let him wear pajamas to school.  But this was something entirely different.

He wasn't going to understand if I said, "I'm a Southernor.  I'm obligated by my culture to have corn-battered catfish at LEAST once a month with liberal amounts of greasy, deep-fried hush puppies on the side. I'm sorry, but I can't help myself."

So, I did all I could -- admitted my faults, that I'm a rampaging fish killer.  "I do eat fish, honey."

"But I don't want you to do it.  I just feel so sad for that lil guy."

I pulled him onto my lap. He smelled like a gamey little boy of summer, a boy who had been out on a boat getting sweaty and wet and now was covered in a film of dirt. He nuzzled his face into my neck and I said, "Hey, how about I draw you up a nice bath? That will be fun."  He nodded against my neck.

Deep, cool bath, lots of bubbles, a big toy boat. He stayed in there for nearly an hour and when he was out there was no further mention of fish or being sad.  I guess we'll cross our fingers and wait for the next time one of the boys wants to go fishing and see what happens.  We may be headed for vegetarianism one of these days.

Thursday, Bloody Thursday

Like most parents with school-aged children, our lives are filled with many activities. Probably too many. Baseball, T-ball, martial arts, boy scouts, weekly skating, and various other activities that we consider "enriching".

Tonight was one of those nights -- a boy scout pack meeting with a big martial arts demo and the unveiling of a long-awaited brand new Pinewood Derby track. My husband is a scout leader and would be handing out awards and badges and various scouty doo-dads that are cool and build the boys' self-esteem.

We pulled into the parking lot and I noticed that the neighbor across from the building we were at had her two pit bulls out in the yard. One was on a leash, one was not. I suspected they were the two animals I'd been hearing about in that neighborhood -- the ones the police and animal control have been visiting for the last few days after reports that they were attacking people's cats.

I pointed them out to Rob and said, "I think those are the dogs that got picked up the other day."

We gathered the children up and went inside. Not long afterward, most of the boys went outside to play while they were waiting for the meeting to start.

Within minutes two parents came in and started yelling my name. They looked panicked and kept yelling to me to come right away. One ran into the bathroom and one ran back out the door. I wasn't sure which one I should follow. All I could think of was one of the dogs was attacking a cat, or worse, a child. I'm on the city council and they wanted me to come and stop a dog from eating a cat in front of a pack of boy scouts.

And then one of them turned and said, "It's Julius, he's been hurt. You have to come quick."

I began running, burst out the glass door into the open air, rounded the corner in the direction she was pointing and there I saw my husband with his hand on Julius's head. Wads of tissue soaked in blood, blood everywhere, soaked into his white karate gi, my husband's hands covered in blood, running down his arms, Julius screaming for help even though his dad was there helping him. A mother's nightmare.

A head injury is any trauma that leads to injury of the scalp, skull, or brain. The injuries can range from a minor bump on the skull to serious brain injury. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine

I yell, "What's happened? What happened to him?"  I hear someone say something about him being hit with a rock. It's nothing that I can understand because all I can see is the blood. How can there be so much blood from a person that size?

Rob bellows for me to get Tristan, find Tristan and get him in the car because we have to get to the hospital now. I could not see what was wrong with him, wasn't close enough. Most of his face was covered with toilet paper and blood. I didn't know what was wrong. The entire group had this horrified look on their faces. I wanted to rush to him and check him out and Rob was telling me to go -- go find Tristan.
I had to rein in my emotions and trust his judgement and handle that part of the family despite my urge to yank Julius out of his hands and take care of him myself.

A friend emerges from the side and says, "I've got Tristan, just go." Another woman ushered me and Rob and Julius toward the car, helped me get him into the car, and said, "I've got the door."

We raced toward the hospital, flashers on, calling the police to say we were on the way and please don't pull us over for driving like maniacs because we are covered in our son's blood from a head wound. Julius starts screaming, "I CAN'T SEE, I CAN'T SEE!"

I'm thinking, "Is his eye out? Is his head laid open to the bone?" All I know is he was hit in the head with a rock, but I don't know how bad, and now he says he can't see followed up with, "I'm gonna throw up."

At the hospital Rob pulled up and grabbed a wheelchair, put Julius in it and I ran to the door and thought, "They better get me in there right now or I'm gonna rip somebody's head off and bathe in their bloody spray." I had the mother's blood lust of protection and as I rounded the corner with my bloody lump of child wailing in the wheelchair the doors parted like the red sea and we were ushered to Trauma 2.

And then when I saw that the medical team had my son in their care... that's when I burst into tears.

The symptoms of a head injury can occur immediately or develop slowly over several hours or days. Even if the skull is not fractured, the brain can bang against the inside of the skull and be bruised. The head may look fine, but complications could result from bleeding or swelling inside the skull. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine

With a warbling voice I managed to croak out his name and my name and something about a kid throwing a rock and "I don't know anymore than that..."  Rob stayed with Julius while I got him checked in and when I came back he was still crying, shaking. His hand grasped out for mine while they held him down to clean him up.

By that time they knew how bad it was. Two wounds, one a puncture above his temple, one a gash on his forhead. They talked for a few minutes and decided that fake skin and steri-strips would do the trick and less scarring than stitches since it was at the front of his forehead. I was so relieved after seeing the wound because what I had imagined was horrific and nearly more than I could bear -- a child disfigured with a missing eye, a gash all down his face requiring 50 gazillion stitches.  I suddenly remembered one of the things he wailed on the trip to the hospital, "Why did this have to happen to ME?"

I held his hand and was able to look at him with complete calm and assurance and tell him how okay it was all going to turn out.  Somehow this day was worse than almost all the other 18 times we've been at the hospital for surgeries.  He was still crying, then screaming again when they started cleaning him up and taping him.

Rob said, "Julius, how many surgeries have you had at Children's Hospital?"

Without hesitation he said, "Eighteen..."

"You're a tough guy. When you see your head in the mirror you're gonna know it's not as bad as you think it is. There was just a lot of blood."

I looked down at his pants. Big drops of blood at the top, massive blood spray at the bottom. I squeezed his hand. His nails and hands were crusted with blood.  No wonder we all freaked out.  No wonder he was still freaked out.

Some head injuries result in prolonged or nonreversible brain damage. This can occur as a result of bleeding inside the brain or forces that damage the brain directly. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine

And finally after a while the medical folks were done with their jobs, most of us were calm, and I had talked Julius into going back to the pack meeting to show off his war wound.  All was mostly right with the world.  Except for the small matter of "Oh by the way, your kid could have a concussion and you have to wake him up every four hours for the next two days to make sure he can form complete sentences, his eyes aren't dilated and that they can track."

I told the nurse, "I can't even do that with him when he hasn't had a head injury."

She smiled and said, "You know your child.  You'll know."

People say that to me a lot, but I never believe them.  Why do women think that because they have this innate maternal instinct that I will also have that same instinct?  I'm not like them.

Tonight I tucked him into bed. He was droopy eyed and limp, tired and emotionally drained.  I laid my hand on his chest and said, "You had a big day today, huh?"  He nodded in response.

"Tomorrow you get to go into school and show everyone your big head wound and show off what a tough guy you are."  He smiled.

"I have an idea.  I think you should tell them that you got injured when Kenneth was casting his fishing line into the water at the fishing derby and he nearly ripped your face off."  He laughed.  That's the boy I'm used to seeing.

"Okay, wait, this is better.  For the girls you can tell them we were driving past an ATM machine and you saw a guy breaking into it with a hammer and you jumped out of the car with your mad karate skills and did a take down on him until the police got there and that's how you hurt your head. What do you think?"

He stared at me with his "mom, you're stupid" face on and said, "No, I think I'll just stick with the rock story."

I shrugged. "Yeah, the truth is pretty cool, too."