Chicken Soup for the Expectant Mother's Soul Read online

  My Hero

  If I know what love is, it is because of you.

  Herman Hesse

  When my husband Larry pulled out of our driveway at 4:30 A.M., four to five inches of snow were already on the ground. Beautiful as the fresh powder was, illuminated by the headlights of his car, I knew we were in trouble. He had a fifteen-mile drive to the nearest station, Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, where he caught the commuter rail into Washington, D.C. It was twelve days from the scheduled cesarean delivery of our third child—there was no telling if I might go into labor before then. I was quite prone to fits of anxiety. These moments of panic were induced by seemingly every meteorologist’s report within a seventy-five-mile radius of our home in rural West Virginia; we lived eight miles from the nearest town and an hour and a half from the hospital where I was to deliver our daughter. I even had nightmares about not being able to get to the hospital when it was time and having a paramedic do emergency surgery along the roadside in the middle of a snowstorm. February had never seemed so forbidding as it did now.

  My husband, well aware of my fears, assured me that he would make it home from work that evening “no matter what,” not wanting to leave me alone with our two small children and a baby about to make her appearance. Happily married for eight years, I trusted him with my life: I knew he was a man of the utmost integrity and loyalty and if he said he would be home, then he would be.

  Hour by hour, far more quickly as the gray afternoon turned to darkness, the snow was mounting: ten inches, twenty-four inches, thirty! I tried to smile as my son and daughter, aged five and seven, peered excitedly out onto the back porch as I, almost hourly, measured how much new snow had fallen. For them, it was primarily an adventure that was happening all around them; their imaginations were filled with the endless possibilities of what they could do in the snow the next day. While they marveled at the drifts that were rapidly consuming my station wagon in front of the house, I began to panic. Larry had called me several times throughout the day to assure me that the train would be running and that he would make it home easily. Around 7 P.M., he phoned to tell me the train from the city had at long last arrived at the station. I was so relieved as visions of my husband stuck on a cold and darkened train overnight, huddling close to other Washington commuters to survive, quickly receded. Little did I know that he was about to embark on the most dangerous journey of his life.

  Although his car had been snowed in at the station, he had convinced me that he was going to be able to get a ride home. I wanted to believe him, but I quietly wondered how anything would be able to move in this blizzard. As minutes became hours, I kept vigil at the family-room window, watching, waiting, and becoming more and more worried. The hours crawled by, and still I had no idea what, if anything, I could do. I prayed often, asking God to watch over my beloved wherever he was and to bring him home safely to us.

  Around 2:00 A.M., as my rocking chair vigil wore on, I saw a dog out in the snow. I had last measured thirty-six inches of snow, yet the dog did not seem at all intimidated by the depths; in fact, he was prancing, almost frolicking it seemed, along what had once been our driveway through the woods. As the dog came closer, I realized with much amazement that it was actually my husband! He was pushing his way through the snow, which was most of the way up his chest. He finally got to the door, and as he gratefully embraced me, I couldn’t believe my eyes—his hair, his eyebrows, his moustache, and his nose, were covered in snow and icicles. His whole body was wet and frozen, but he was okay.

  Larry had walked home—fifteen miles—in over three feet of snow, in the dark of night, in the middle of a blizzard, to be with our unborn child and me. He had promised he would get home, and he had kept his word, as always. What a courageous and loyal husband I had that night! The love he knew I had for him in my heart had sustained him while God had protected him.

  Our daughter, Anna Patricia, was born ten days later.

  Patricia Franklin

  I Know What You’ve Been Doing!

  My sister was at her wit’s end trying to stop my four-year-old nephew, Todd, from sucking his thumb. Finally, she told him if he didn’t stop, his stomach would get very big and puffy.

  The following Sunday in church, a very pregnant lady happened to be sitting in the same pew. Todd kept staring at her. When the service was over, he pulled at her arm and whispered, “Your stomach is big and puffy. . . I know what you’ve been doing!”

  Becky Walker

  A State of Bliss

  It is only when the rigidity of advanced pregnancy sets in that you appreciate fully how useful it was to be able to bend at the waist.

  Audrey Hull

  They say ignorance is bliss. I believe this saying applies to a lot of things. I am totally blissful that I don’t know the actual ingredients of a hot dog or how many dust mites are in my mattress. It thrills me that I have no clue when Elvis’s birthday is, how many stomachs a llama has or the best way to clean a trout. There is a wonderful freedom in declaring, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  There are definitely things about becoming a mom I am glad I didn’t know before I joined the ranks of the progeny enhanced.

  I am very glad I did not know my son would weigh nine pounds eight ounces when he was born, or that he would have a big head. (When asked what kind of baby she wanted, a woman I know replied, “One with a small head.” )

  No one ever told me that I was going to have a big baby; for this lack of knowledge I am truly grateful.

  What possible good would it have done me if the doctor had said at the end of my pregnancy, “Whoa—sign up for heavy drugs now because you’ll have a heck of a time getting that one out!”

  I could have guessed I’d have a big baby. Unlike some of my friends who just looked like they’d had a big dinner when they were nine months pregnant, I was a lot more bulbous in nature. I couldn’t see my feet after about month seven and had to have the UPS man tie my shoes on more than one occasion.

  It must have been hormonally induced insanity that forced me to buy a knit dress with horizontal stripes; anyone who reads Vogue faithfully or has done a little people-watching knows horizontal stripes make you appear wider. When I look back at pictures of myself, I realize I looked like a gigantic, mobile blue-and-white beach umbrella. The joke, “When God said ‘Let there be light’ he asked you to move,” applied to me.

  I’ve heard it said that childbirth is like trying to squeeze a St. Bernard through a cat door. In my case, it was more like a baby hippo.

  I’m also glad I didn’t know that I wouldn’t like shopping for myself anymore. It happened time and time again. After having the baby, I’d go shopping for some nonmaternity clothes that had been manufactured sometime within the current presidential term. My body was still not recognizable as my own—my weight was redistributed in places that were pleasing (my chest) and not so pleasing (my thighs). I read somewhere that nursing mothers maintain fat on their thighs so they can continue to feed their babies should a famine occur. I could rest quite comfortably at night knowing that should our food supply be totally cut off, I could nourish my children until they were through grade school and could forage for berries in the woods on their own.

  So none of my clothes fit right. At the mall, I’d think about what I’d need to wear to an upcoming party and which stores I’d visit. Hours later I’d head home with a full trunk of—you guessed it: clothes for the baby. The thing about baby clothes is that they are all so adorable and would look especially adorable on my baby. I couldn’t risk another baby wearing my baby’s outfit, so I’d buy them all.

  At the party I would make sure my conversation was especially scintillating, hoping no one would notice I was wearing my lime-green prom dress. Being 100 percent polyester, it was stretchy enough to fit over my hips, and this time the top fit without the benefit of a padded bra.

  I’ve been a mom for ten years as of this month. I’ve recovered my old body. I don’t have a baby to shop for anymore, but n
ow I don’t have time to shop. The good news is my lime-green prom dress is back in style. And I took the blue-and-white striped one and made a canopy for our beach trip this month.

  Jan Butsch

  “Jennifer, the term ‘blissfully pregnant’

  is an oxymoron.”

  Reprinted by permission of Dave Carpenter. ©2000 Dave Carpenter.

  Hair Raising

  As a young lieutenant’s wife in the 1970s, I quickly learned that being “in the Army” was a whole-family experience. Many of the officers’ wives served as volunteers on post, particularly the hospital.

  During one checkup, when I was pregnant with my second child, the handsome doctor had difficulty pushing the sliding shelf at the end of the examining table back into the table. The two volunteers, both officers’ wives, tried to help, but the doctor finally had to get down on his knees and keep the shelf level while pushing to remedy this problem. In the meantime, I suddenly felt something similar to a Brillo pad, brush my foot, which was on the stirrup. It became quickly apparent that this was no pot scrubber I felt on my foot, but the hairpiece, that moments before adorned the doctor’s head! As he pulled away, his toupee was left hanging precisely from my little toe. He quickly snatched the hairpiece off my toe and placed it back on his head without a word.

  Later that month, I was having coffee with other wives who volunteered at the hospital. Someone asked how I liked working at the Army hospital. I began laughing and shared my story about the toupee.

  I admit I found it very embarrassing at the time, but hilarious later. As I finished my story, several of the women immediately grabbed their purses and began handing money to the others. It seems there was a longstanding bet among these women about whether this physician, indeed, wore a toupee. Several of them left that day with smiles on their faces and money in their pockets. The cat was out of the bag.

  Susan Everett

  Excerpted with permission from Belly Laughs and Babies, compiled by Mary Sheridan ©>1997 Laughing Stork Press.

  A Mother’s Journey

  My life forever changed on the day you were conceived,

  Your heartbeat gave me the reality of what I had achieved.

  The stages of your development, the picture of how you grew,

  Never completely knowing if I should buy in pink or blue.

  Then came the day when I was able to hold you in my arms,

  Hoping, as any mother would, to protect you against harm.

  A precious little baby with ten tiny new toes,

  An amazing set of lungs and a cute little button nose.

  As you grow with lightning speed, I promise to treasure every day,

  And try my best to give you a rainbow when the sky is dark and grey.

  Elizabeth Butera

  Expectant-ness

  What I remember most about the months before my daughter’s arrival was the “expectant-ness” with which I lived my life. There was the good expectant-ness, associated with the knowledge that we were about to adopt a beautiful baby girl who would forever alter the lives of my husband, my two sons and myself.

  This was the one I cherished.

  Then, there was the not-so-good expectant-ness, associated with the knowledge that my mother, diagnosed with terminal cancer and clinging to her final few months on this earth, would probably not live to meet her new granddaughter—a granddaughter for whom she had hoped and dreamed years before.

  This was the one I dreaded.

  Unbelievably, it was the mingling of these two kinds of expectant-ness which helped me understand the true meaning of “expecting.”

  I had received the call from my oldest sister, Linda, earlier that week, telling me that our mother was in the hospital again. It didn’t look good, she whispered. Maybe I should come now, over the Thanksgiving holiday, to see her. I was torn. I had already flown home, to Indiana, from Texas several times that year to see her, and my sons, ages five and seven, were looking forward to a chance to stay home this holiday. My husband, Brian, was also weary of traveling, but he understood the predicament in which I found myself.

  “Go home,” he said that night. “The boys and I will be just fine here. You need to be with your mom.”

  When I arrived at the hospital the next day, I could see that my sisters had not exaggerated. Mom smiled at me weakly from her bed.

  “It must be bad if you returned from the sunny South,” she murmured. I shrugged and joked about avoiding cooking a Thanksgiving turkey. We both settled into a comfortable silence, interrupted periodically by beeping and clicking of the I.V. machine in the corner. Finally, Mom spoke.

  “Tell me all about the little girl.” Her eyes, overcast and dull, brightened momentarily. So did mine, I know, as I filled her in on the four-month-old baby who, sight unseen, had seized our hearts. We talked for what seemed like hours, Mom sharing her memories of the four little girls she had brought into the world. She talked about how fun it was to dress all of us and brush our hair, to share feminine wisdom and secrets. And then we were quiet again, the room swollen with the expectant-ness of a new mother and an old one, about to retire her position forever.

  The doctor released her to my sister’s home the next day, knowing there was little more he could do for her there. She had been patched up with another blood transfusion, enough to get her through the turkey and cranberry sauce, and maybe a few days besides, before her blood would again begin to fail her. We all made it through the holiday with false cheeriness, and then returned to the business of sitting around and waiting—the business of expectant-ness.

  A day or two later, my mother interrupted the terrible silences of the house.

  “Have you bought much for the baby yet?”

  I shook my head. I was an adoptive mother, having been through the state system with our sons. Our daughter would also be coming through the foster care system, and even though our experience before had been very positive, we knew better than to count on adoption paperwork always going according to plan. The less I purchased for the baby, the more secure I felt in her arrival. Call it one of those protective quirks that adoptive parents learn early on.

  Mom smiled weakly, and Linda sat up straighter in her chair. “Hey! There’s a baby-clothing outlet that just opened nearby! Let’s go shopping!”

  I hesitated. Should I explain my superstitions about shopping too early for the baby? Did I need to tell them how I was trying to protect myself, not wanting to have to bundle little pink dresses and blankets into boxes, bound for the attic, never to be used?

  “That sounds like fun,” Mom said quietly. I watched her eyes brighten. “Little pink dresses and booties and receiving blankets . . .”

  It didn’t take us long to load up her wheelchair and hit the road. We laughed and talked all the way there, remembering all the shopping trips we had taken before, the bargains we had found, the lunches over which we had lingered, the chocolate sodas with which we’d end our days. This was to be our final shopping trip, a mother and her daughters, filled with expectant-ness, for the day, and the promise of a new shopping companion, not yet arrived.

  Mom swung into action immediately, her hands, bruised from the myriad of I.V. needles, reaching for pastel dresses with satin ribbons and flowers at the hem. She “oohed” and “aahed” over fluffy, pink blankets and hooded bath towels and caressed the brims of frilly hats, imagining, I suppose, the soft smell of the baby’s head that would soon fill them. She directed my sister and me all over the store from her wheelchair perch, pointing to tiny washcloths and patterned sleepers. The life in her eyes buoyed me and carried me from my feeling of despair. I was an expectant mother, she bragged to every salesclerk in the store. We were going to have a baby girl in the family, and she would need to be dressed to the nines.

  We went home that night and pulled our soft, pink treasures from a sea of bags that covered the living room floor. I watched my mother’s watery eyes travel over each tiny outfit, and then light on me with a smile. The torch had been pa
ssed.

  My daughter, Ellie, arrived two months later, three weeks after my mother finally lost her fight with cancer. I wrapped my baby lovingly in each of those beautiful dresses, and remembered that last shopping trip with my mother that showed me the real meaning of expectant-ness. On that day, I learned that expecting is more than waiting for something to happen. On that day, it was about living in the moments between.

  Barbara Warner

  3

  FOR

  EXPECTANT

  FATHERS

  Rose says that this is the day. I am dubious. After all, there have been no clarion cries from the heaven, no storks seen fleeting against the still wintery sky. It’s much too ordinary a day for such a remarkable event as the birth of our baby.

  Martin Paule

  “That goofball over there offered me five bucks to put

  this helmet on his kid long enough to get a photo.”

  CLOSE TO HOME. ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE.

  Father Hens

  Icould not point to any need in childhood as strong as that for a father’s protection.

  Sigmund Freud

  The night after we brought our first child home from the hospital, I held him in the streetlight half-darkness of our living room. Joshua was crying, a little pink bird, his breath ragged, his arms and legs stretching aimlessly. I sang him an old Irish tune and found Mackey—from the Gaelic word for son.

  In those first moments of fatherhood, I imagined all the daring acts I would perform in my boy’s defense, all the intruders I would subdue. I laughed, noticing with a shiver the contrast between my dark fantasies and the perfect sweet-soft boy I cradled. As he fell asleep, a smudge of yawn and mew, I thought about my own father and a legacy that has made its way into my heart.