The Nest is Emptying
A week from Tuesday, my 19 year-old daughter, Cindi, will be moving out and into the University of Wisconsin-Parkside college dorm, as a Sophomore. She went to school last year, but commuted the 30+ miles every day of the week. With the rising cost of gasoline, and her desire to focus more on school, we’ve come to the conclusion it would be better for her all the way around to move into the dorm.
I like the idea. I’m glad she’s doing it. That doesn’t mean I won’t miss her. Cindi and I are very close, and it’s going to be difficult when she leaves. I’ll probably sob like a baby, but I know she has to do this.
Twenty-one-year-old Kelli moved out last April. She gave us one day’s notice, had no firm plan and no money. I was frantic. Funny enough though, she is making it – barely, but making it. When Kelli left, I didn’t think I was going to survive it.
All these years, Tom and I have been “dreaming” about the empty nest – wishing for it, anticipating it, wanting it. And yet, now that it is almost completely upon us, I’m not too crazy about it. The truth is, I want my children around me. I want them around me forever. They are constantly on my mind and in my heart. Whatever happened to the nuclear family? What was so wrong with that set-up? It doesn’t seem right that we’ve got this big four-bedroom, four-bath house, and no kids to fill it up with.
Our son stays with us, but only because he can’t afford to move out yet. If he could, he’d be out there in a heartbeat, away from me. If he could, he would get as far away from me as he could possibly make it. That doesn’t seem right.
But I remember when all I wanted in my life was to get away from my parents. I wanted my own place in the world. I wanted responsibility. I wanted confidence. I wanted to grow up. When it comes down to it, I don’t really want my children to grow up. I’d be happy if they were little again.
I know this is the way life is supposed to be; that my children are supposed to grow up and leave me, but I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to ever get used to it, and I honestly don’t think I ever will. That’s not a complaint, just a fact, and I needed to express it.
Perhaps when they marry and bring me grandchildren, I’ll be able to get the big picture. But until then, I’m not buying into the “niceties” of the empty nest. Just as I never received a manual when the children were born, I don’t quite know how to handle this leaving home business. I guess it’ll come in time; raising them did. I sure have been blessed to have had that experience.
The truth is I know it’ll all work out. It’s just going to take me a little time to get used to the idea of the empty nest.
The Charm of a Small Town
There’s something good to be said about small towns. I was born, raised and lived for 40 years in a small city about 40 miles north of Chicago. Waukegan, Illinois, a bustling metropolis of about 80,000 ((not a small town), is best known as the birthplace of Jack Benny and author Ray Bradbury.
In summertime, mom and dad would pack up the family of seven and head on down to Litchfield, Illinois, where my mother was originally from. Litchfield is about 30 miles south of the Capital of Springfield. In the ‘60’s and ‘70’s when I was a kid, Litchfield had a population of only about 7,200, and today it’s actually gotten smaller at about 6,800.
Yes, we were used to living in a busier environment with its factories, churches, banks and most of all, traffic. One would think we’d be bored in a small town like Litchfield, but we weren’t. I had some of the best times of my life there.
My mother was the seventh child of nine, born to Levin and Margaret. She was born on Christmas Day in 1929, just about two months after the stock market crash, right in the throws of the Great Depression. Her father, about 80% deaf, worked as a carnival photographer and was often away from home. Her mother was a homemaker and hospital housekeeper, and they were not in the least very well off. They lived in a small house and often did not know where their next meal would come from, but somehow they got through those tough times.
I loved my Grandma C. (last names withheld) very much. I can remember her as far back as age 72. The one thing I remember most about her is that she always suffered severely with rheumatoid arthritis; took several Bufferin each day, and drank the hottest, blackest Maxwell House coffee you could ever imagine. She hurt constantly, and we kids were always scared to death we were going to make it worse by embracing her or even going near her. I can remember my cousin, Janice, saying, “Don’t step on Grandmaw’s feet, don’t step on Grandmaw’s hurtin’ feet.” She lived until she was 86 years old, the last five years in a nursing home.
I think the members of a community relying on one another are something that a small town has that bigger towns and cities don’t have as much of. Mom had many friends back home in Litchfield. We’d stroll downtown to the Rexall or the Fashion Lane, and at every turn, there was someone to say hello to or enjoy a visit with. That’s how small towns are. Everybody knows each other. They care for one another.
I can remember very much enjoying spending time with my Uncle Earl, a bachelor all his life. Uncle Earl was kind of a kid himself in many ways, and he related to us little ones quite naturally. He was gifted at gardening and painting and drawing and he could play accordian by ear! I can remember him teaching me how peach seeds have to germinate in the sun a certain amount of time before they can be planted. I must have been about eight years old. He really enjoyed we kids. He often would put us all in a wagon and hook it up to the back of his riding lawn mower and give us rides all evening long, all around their yard, which was about a half acre. That was fun. He never got tired of us. Our parents never worried about us when we were with Uncle Earl.
When the carnival came to town, Uncle Earl, was right there with an open wallet and the enthusiasm of a child. He didn’t have a lot of money, as he worked as a dishwasher in a hotel for many years, but he always found plenty to take my sister and me on at least five or six rides. We’d have a ball together.
One time, Uncle Earl walked my sister, Tammy, and I down to Mohr’s Grocery store, about three blocks West on Jones Street. The road had been newly oiled and was scorching hot in the August sun. Tammy and I hadn’t bothered to put any shoes on that day, and we started crying, as our feet were burning like fire. My Uncle Earl, a big man of about 6 feet tall, picked up both Tammy and I, held us each in one arm, walked us to Mohr’s, bought us a 7-cent Popsicle, and carried us all the way back home. He didn’t complain for a minute. I think he would have made a good dad.
When we’d visit Litchfield, if it was summer, we would camp at Hillsboro Lake, about 12 miles East. In winter, we would stay at the family homestead at 914 South Montgomery. It was a 4-room house, with no indoor plumbing, but was always plenty inviting to us. It sure was cold in winter, and every morning about 5 o’clock, my Uncle George would shovel the coal into the big black pot belly stove that stood in the middle of the living room. I don’t think that stove ever generated much heat, but he’d do it anyway – every morning, without fail.
I had about twenty-five cousins and eight aunts and uncles not including the spouses. I can remember enjoying family picnics out at Walton Park or Lake Lou Yaeger. We’d be out there from early afternoon until dusk enjoying each other’s company. The adults all talked at once and we kids would horse around with one another until somebody would get mildly injured and start crying. My dad would make us settle down for a little bit, which was basically taking a time out to rest, but then we’d be right back having a good time.
My Aunt Mary and Uncle Gene were night owls, as opposed to my Aunt Helen and my Uncle Marshall, who went to bed every night by about 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. My folks weren’t ready to settle in for the night by nine, so we would often take a ride over to Mary and Gene’s on Madison to visit. They were always happy to see us, no matter the time. Even after my mother died, and we’d go to Litchfield, we stayed true to form and would visit them later in the evening. Aunt Mary had five children, 19 grandchildren and who knows how many great grandchildren, and her living room and dining room were filled to the ceilings with pictures of all those kids. We had plenty to talk about.
My Aunt Ruth was about 80% deaf, like her dad. She was married to my Uncle Eddie, who was a maintenance engineer at St. Francis Hospital in town. You couldn’t tell Ruth you liked something in her house, because once you said you liked it, she’d want to give it to you. I can remember her forcing dish towels on my mom one time. It may sound cliché, but those were good times. And man, she sure could cook! That lady could make an apple pie to put you on your knees and thank the Lord!
And speaking of cooking, my Aunt Helen was fabulous too. Heck, all my aunts were. We’d go over to Aunt Helen and Uncle Marshall’s place there on Lincoln, and Helen would never sit down to visit. She was too busy taking care of us. She was real hyper, and it made her happy to serve us as guests in her home. I have to mention too that she and Uncle Marshall were nuts in love. Boy, she always thought he was the cat’s meow, and vice versa. They never did anything inappropriate, but you could just tell. Today, at 92 and 94, they are both in the nursing home over on Illinois Avenue, and still nearly inseparable.
There were some not-so-fun times in Litchfield too, as my Uncle Bob was a very ill alcoholic, but I’m not going to dwell on those times. I’m also happy to say that he conquered that problem and was sober the last 10 years of his life. I like to focus on my fondest memories of when Uncle Chris, Aunt Pat and our family would all come down from Waukegan and visit the family in Litchfield.
My Aunt Mary, Aunt Helen, Aunt Pat, and Uncle Earl survive their parents and brothers and sisters today, and I’m happy to say that we’re going to trek on down to Litchfield this August for another visit. It will be one of the first times in a few years we’re not actually going for a funeral. I still have plenty of cousins down there to picnic with, and maybe we’ll take a ride out to the cemetery too.
Litchfield might not be much to some folks, but it’s a world of wonderful memories to me.
Welcome to the 21st Century
So what do you do when your dial up connection finally refuses to budge? I mean, you got nothing. No tiny creeping blue bar, no email access, no celebrity baby photos. Of course, as far as the photos went, it’s not like those ever loaded decently. I’d get about a third of a picture and there it would sit. Brad Pitts head and maybe just a smidgen of torso, stuck there reminding you forever, if you had the patience to wait that long, of all that the rest of the photo had in store. Never could really make out what particular child he was carting around. Visitors have always been amazed that as close to town as we are, we couldn’t ever tap into some sort of high speed connection aside from using a satellite dish. But up and over the hill and a mile or so away from all the necessary take out options, can still leave a person stranded with extremely spotty technology.
It’s one thing to have to position yourself against the proper window to make a cell phone call, entirely another to coax any speed out of your stationary computer. Cell phone calls we have gotten down to a science. Two windows, family room and master bedroom, are best suited for successful cell calls. These rooms are suitable due to the lack of the tin roof that covers the original part of the house. The raised tin roof, perfectly lovely and wonderful when it rains, was still a common component of homes in Virginia even as late as our home was built, which was in 1939. Ours is a nice shade of red, my favorite color for a tin roof, though I have to admit that the red color only covers the front part of the roof. This is because, after successfully painting most of the front portion of the roof, my husband decided that the bees were getting a bit too plentiful. Claimed they were dive bombing him. So he climbs down the ladder, retrieves some Wasp and Hornet Killer and heads back up to the roof with the can in tow. He goes back to the painting, spraying liberally when the bees threaten. Doesn’t take long and the roof becomes saturated with Wasp and Hornet Killer and this is not good for the traction on his sneakers. When he does finally slip, he manages to NOT fall off the roof and merely loses the can of paint he was using. So a good portion of the grass next to the walk is red and an even bigger portion of the flagstones that make up the walk is red, but there are no broken bones and grass can be mowed and flagstones can be flipped over. Whenever I mention that, really, that back part of the roof desperately needs to be painted, he recalls how he nearly slipped off the roof before. Well, yes, I say, that’s true but you were spraying Wasp and Hornet Killer with wild abandon and that was probably not a good idea. Why don’t you get back up there at a time of the year when the bees aren’t so rabid? Oh, yeah, I should do that, he says. And then it never happens. And it’s been four years since he managed to paint the front and leave the back a not so appealing shade of primer yellow.
So, yes, the tin roof is a major obstacle in connecting with those cell phone towers. But we can usually hang onto a conversation if we turn just right and basically press our bodies against the window. When even those attempts fail, we are forced to go outside and find a suitable spot. The driveway is not so good, but if we go over towards the west side of the front yard we can make a call from there. And if it’s evening we can watch the cows filter down from the top of their field. Put on the bug spray, get comfy on the bench and watch the calves run amok. For a change of scenery, we can also make calls from the top step of the back deck. Can’t try this on the steps leading down from the master bedroom into the yard, and can’t do it on any of the other deck steps. This also involves the use of bug spray and a hat doesn’t hurt if we’re placing the call during the day because it is quite sunny there. Texting, though, works from a number of windows and rarely involves having to go outside. Type the text, stick your arm straight up in the air, and wave the phone wildly about, and the text will be successfully sent.
While we have come to accept and deal with our cell phone limitations, even going into town to place a long distance call if the cell phone gods are being particularly obnoxious on a given day, we have been slogging our way through dial up connections for far too long. With virtually no hope of any cable stretching it’s way down into our rural environment, we have feared that our only reprieve was catching our high speed connection through a dish. We have had a satellite dish for our T.V. for about ten years, and since that is our only choice for proper T.V. reception in the 21st century, we have to put up with all the flaws that comes with it. Basically, if the wind picks up over ten miles an hour, we lose the family room reception. The reception on the bedroom set will hang in for, oh, maybe, twenty miles an hour worth of wind, and then that’s gone. And if a dark cloud in the southern sky decides to so much as hiccup, forget it. We’ve lost “The World’s Most Luxurious Yachts” thirty-five minutes into it, just when we’re totally sucked into the mindless, captivating power of the program. Nothing is more annoying then the ruined hour long program.
But this is where the Happy Ever After kicks in. Thanks to the persistent, but always polite, salesgirl at the Verizon store, we have entered the 21st century, late but better then never. Didn’t even know, couldn’t even guess, that the little device popped into one of the USB ports on the modem could provide such happiness. Along with the obliglatory two year commitment and careful, patient tweaking of it’s little antenna, we have successfully achieved two green bars on our connection screen! Oh, yeah, we did have to purchase the booster antenna and haul in a magnetic surface to stick it to and carefully and patiently point it where it demanded to go. And it really doesn’t want to produce more than two green bars when the truly desired amount of bars is four. But there’s always the Wi Fi booster for one of the other USB ports. Never give up, never surrender. And never, EVER, trip over, dislodge, or otherwise jiggle any of the carefully tweaked, patiently aligned connections to the outside world.
Why is it that…
Last night as I was lying down to sleep and after I said my nightly prayers, I got to thinking about what I might write about in my next blog. I have always had a curious mind and have often asked the question, “Why?” Here are some observations that I’ve made in my lifetime.
Why is it when you’re in a public bathroom, and there are 20 stalls or so, and you choose a stall far away from everyone else, that someone else comes into the bathroom and chooses the stall right next to yours? Now remember, there are at least 15 stalls to choose from, most of them far away from you, but she chooses the one next to you. Why is that? Doesn’t that seem kind of strange? Just askin’.
Why is it that whenever I have diarrhea and I tell my stepmother, she asks the question, “What color is it?” She does this with my snot too, by the way. Why is that? Why is it necessary for her to know the color of my excrement? I’ll tell you why! My stepmother can diagnose whatever ails you by the color of your void material! My poor dad can’t take a private trip into the bathroom without her reminding him not to flush. What is that about? Apparently, if your poop is dark black, you may have a bleeding ulcer or cancer. This is definite if there’s blood in it. If your poop is a yellowish dun color, you have the stomach flu. I don’t remember what green means. Where she gets this? I do not know. She also becomes concerned if you don’t poop after a couple days, so she keeps tabs on that for my dad too. I find that a little disturbing, and wonder if I’m going to need to know the color, texture and frequency of my husband’s poop some day. I guess it could happen, but I sure hope not.
I have a lot more things I wonder about; not just bathroom things. Like why do people pierce themselves, especially their tongues? What is the pleasure in that? I’ve been told it’s for sexual reasons, but I can’t imagine putting myself through so much pain for sex. But then again, maybe others would. Isn’t it bad enough when a person asks, “Do you want fries with that?” than to say, “Do you mant fried wit dat?” I’m just sayin’ they sound like they have a mouth full of change.
Why is it that every time we make or break camp, it’s raining? I don’t think anything more about that needs to be said. I don’t want to anger God, that’s for sure.
Why have six remotes? Isn’t our technology advanced enough today that we can do all the things we need to do with just one remote? I mean we need to change the t.v. channels, watch DVD’s, record VHS tapes to DVD, digitally record t.v. shows, play CD’s, turn on the fan and operate our computers, so why can’t we do all that with just one remote? Why hasn’t just one universal remote been invented? Wouldn’t that make things easier? This is just another one of my “why-isms”.
Why is it today that many young people feel that they have to wear their pants half-way off their butts? Who came up with this fashion idea? I’m just not getting that one.
Why do people still smoke? This is a big one for me. I can’t understand after all we’ve learned about smoking and the harm that it causes to the smoker and everybody else who has to breathe in the smoke, that people are still smoking. And why do young people start smoking? That’s weird. I can understand older people have the habit, and it’s a tough habit to break, so they don’t quit for whatever reason (maybe they can’t), but after all we know about smoking, why do young people start up? That’s just strange to me. But I digress.
Why is it absolutely unfathomable to touch your seat partner in an airplane? Why is that? About a month ago, I was on a very scary flight, and without thinking, I touched the arm of the gentlemen on my right. I was immediately apologetic to him, feeling I had committed a very big no no. It just isn’t politically correct to touch your seat neighbor. How come? Why did I feel the need to apologize so profusely to him? Who knows and who made up that rule?
Why is it that after my Uncle Marshall accidentally dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the American Legion Hall floor while carving it, we still ate that turkey without flinching? It’s not like there wasn’t more turkey. I think we had three birds all together that year.
When you’re pregnant, why is it that everybody and their brother’s uncle’s cousin feels a need to touch your stomach without your permission, and they do it? It’s “anything goes” when you’re pregnant. Aren’t there any rules to follow? If not, why not? They don’t touch your boobs, at least they didn’t when I was having babies. Heck, maybe things have changed and they do touch your boobs now. Maybe that rule is out the window too now.
Why is a food that is as good as corn on the cob so messy and difficult to eat? Why can’t it taste lousy and therefore be undesirable like Brussells sprouts or asparagus?
There are some questions that just can’t be answered I guess. Still, I wonder… I guess I’m just an incessant smart alec. That’s the rumor anyway.
The Next One, and Then Some
Although Tom and I had initially talked about having a large family, after the drama of having Kelli and her being somewhat of a difficult baby, I would have been happy with just the two. Tom had other plans though; he wanted another son. When Kelli was four months old, I discovered I was pregnant again. Unfortunately, on August 13, 1987, I lost our little son at 16 weeks gestation. It was a very difficult time for us, as anyone can understand.
After that loss, I was sure I did not want to become pregnant again, but Tom truly wanted another son. Since he had been so good with the kids and around the house, I realized that I could not in all good consciousness say no to him. Besides, I had made a promise to him before I married him in the Catholic Church, that I would “not prevent him from having the children that he wanted,” so I agreed to have just one more.
Again, I became pregnant right away, and happily on November 1, 1988, Cynthia Marie was born.
Cindi was 7 lb. 15 oz. and 20 inches long. After two very challenging babies, I was ready for an easy one, and Cindi did not disappoint. By the time she was three days old, she found her thumb, and at nine days, she was sleeping from 11 p.m. until 6 a.m. What a dream come true! She was the apple of my eye. She was four days old before we realized she had beautiful red hair. Cindi would prove to be a very easy mannered baby. I felt I was ahead of the game, so Tom and I decided three was enough, and I had a tubal ligation procedure to prevent future pregnancies. By this time, Tom and I were no longer looking for a manual, but thinking of writing one ourselves!
Then I got a crazy idea. As all three kids got into school, I began to long for a baby again. Yeah, I know, I know! What in the world was I thinking? I believe this was the beginning of my mental illness actually.
In December, 1995, I underwent a tubal reanastomosis (tubal ligation reversal) surgery. Over the next three years, I would undergo several uncomfortable and awkward tests to determine why I wasn’t getting pregnant.
A day before my birthday, November, 18, 1998, I felt a strange, foreign sensation, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t have any pain, but perhaps I felt a little light-headed. I was three days late but didn’t think anything of it. That morning, I went to my boss and negotiated an early lunch so that I could go to my doctor to determine what might be wrong. Less than an hour later, I sat on the examining table, completely dumbfounded, as the doctor reported to me I was pregnant again, and he was almost certain this was an ectopic pregnancy. I couldn’t believe it! Aren’t ectopic pregnancies supposed to be really painful?
I called Tom at work, and he left immediately. I called my parents and tearfully gave them the news. They asked me if I wanted them to come too, and a little embarrassed, I waled, “Yeeesssss!” Then I called my boss, Bob Powers. I couldn’t contain my tears to Bob either and knowing he was a a devout Catholic, I asked him to pray for me. He said, “Hold on a minute, Terri, let me shut my door.” A moment later, Bob came back on the line and said, “OK, Terri, we’re going to pray together now.” I bowed my head, tears streaming down my face, as Bob recited the most beautiful, heartfelt prayer I could ever imagine anyone saying for me. It touched me beyond words.
Shortly after, Tom met me at the doctor’s office, and together we walked over to the hospital to get ready for surgery. That time is a little fuzzy for me. I can’t remember if they did an ultrasound to determine if the baby was stuck in the fallopian tube or if they just went ahead and did the surgery. One would think I would remember such a thing, but it just isn’t coming. All I remember is the doctor telling me there was a 20% chance the baby was going to be ok, and an 80% chance I would lose it and the tube too. As expected, we lost the baby, and I would spend four days in the hospital recuperating followed by a six-week stint at home with my little ones. My desire to have a fourth child dissipated like a chilly wind in mid-May. I was done; I had had enough.
So there is our family. I have to say we are happy. We’re not perfect by any means, but we are happy. Family is a lifeline for me. The other day I had a heated discussion with my sister about the breakdown of the family in these wonderful United States of America. I know that sounds like a Latter-day Saint talking, but it’s not all about my religion. It’s how I really feel. I have often told my children that unfortunately, most of their friends will one day let them down. Most friends are temporary, but your family is forever, and when things get rough, your family will always be there for you to help you pick up the pieces and get rolling again. At least that’s been my experience.
God bless America and God bless the family!
It’s Another Graduation Summer
We’ve made it to July! The household has settled into the peaceful, restful rituals that only July has to offer. Teenagers sleeping until noon, children eating something at all hours of the day so that the kitchen is never truly clean, endless bickering over who’s turn it is to play video games because even though there are FOUR video game systems in the house, both boys only want to play the system his brother is playing. Afternoons spent making and decorating cupcakes, of which, on Sunday, Joanna’s beloved dog, Finnegan managed to get twelve of them out of their container and eat each and every one. That’s right, sprinkles, frosting, paper cups, all eaten. Nothing thrills that dog more than the forbidden cupcake. So, May and June and the frenetic end of yet another school year are distant memories, and all things to do with the most recent high school graduation are fading as well. My oldest daugher, Liz, graduated two years ago, and quicker than you can dye that encroaching gray ou of your hair, daughter number two has followed suit. Bittersweet, yes, but it’s really more bizzare than anything else because it just doesn’t seem possible that two years have gone already and my mind refuses to compute the reality at hand. Daughter number three will graduate in another two years, and that one will probably kill me.
In order to attempt to process another high school graduation summer, I felt that a graduation shopping and lunch extravaganza was in order. Nothing helps one deal with those milestones that life hands you like whipping out that debit card and hitting the highway. So, beginning in the second week of June, Joanna and I were able to launch into the proper spending money respite. This wasn’t an everyday thing, the Trumps sadly we are not, but every few days when rewatching much loved old movies had run it’s course, we’d hit the road to shop for “the basics”. That’s how every unnecessary shopping trip must be justified when shopping trips go into overdrive. If we didn’t convince ourselves that we were genuinely after “the basics”, we could be plagued by guilt that could last for hours, maybe even into the next day. So we barricaded the dogs in the upstairs hallway (two baby gates, one saxaphone case, and a folding chair strategically placed on and around the top stair) and took off. Two nearby towns contain the indispensible Target, a department store, a breathtaking shoe store, the Yankee Candle store, and perfectly acceptable lunching establishments.
For nearly three weeks it was all about blowing way too much money and mushroom burgers and caesar salads and raspberry lemonade and dodging thunderstorm after thunderstorm. On one excursion, the blowout shopping trip to end all shopping trips, really, we drove an hour away to do the mall. We shopped most successfully, we lunched on pasta and bread and salad and attempted to beat the latest storm back home. Well, that didn’t happen. Beating the storm, that is. We’re going along, listening to Joanna’s Ipod, it’s all good. We’ve bought some swell summer dresses, five altogether, three of them earmarked for her graduation that Saturday. One dress for the big day is for me and two are for her. She has to have two for the day so she can pull off a change of dresses at just the right time in the course of the day. This is especially important because her graduation day is also the day of her eighteenth birthday. How excellent is that?! She gets to fully treat the day as her own little Oscar night celebration. You know, one amazing dress for the awards show and another for the after parties. Very, very Cate Blanchett and Mariah Carey. Except that she’s actually covered up unlike Mariah Carey who consistently confuses attractive with barely clothed.
Anyway, life is good on this particular day until we realize that up ahead the sky is an alarming shade of gray. Or, rather, death eater black. So, there’s no turning back, there’s no place to pull the car over, it’s just rushing headlong towards the portal of hell. We could even see the demarcation line of the storm, so cartoon-like vivid you would’ve thought it was computer generated ’cause there’s no way that solid line of wind and rain could be real. We hit the wall of storm screaming for all we’re worth. Joanna claims I was the one doing the screaming, and the swearing, and the wailing, but I’m sure she did her share. And if I was more vocal and a teensy bit more freaked out, fine. I was allowed because I was driving and trying not to hit something and pleading with fate, or whatever was out and about on that day, to not drop a funnel cloud on top of the car. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, I had to drive through something that intense. The pickup truck behind me (fortunately the only vehicle in the vicinity), his headlights slowly disappeared as I inched my way along. I have no idea where he went. Joanna felt the need at some point to tell me that wouldn’t it be beyond tragic if we perished on that road just days before her birthday AND her high school graduation. Uh, well, yes, that would be bad, truly rotten, but why are you even talking to me about such an awful thing when I need all my concentration to avoid hitting trees and fences and buildings and other cars and, quite possibly farmhouses dropping out of the sky. Don’t want to get hit by one of those.
Eight white knuckled minutes later, we realize the rain is getting lighter and I allow the speed to start climbing from it’s snail pace of five miles an hour. The music gets turned back on and we revel in that lovely little rush of coming through something vicious unscathed. As we get closer to home, we hit those pockets of destruction that thunderstorms like that leave behind. The road ahead looks clear, and then you suddenly come upon trees down and sagging power lines and creeping traffic. The tornado warnings come off and on well into that evening but we fortunately get nothing like what we drove through that afternoon. A very hot, humid graduation ceremony comes and goes on Saturday, and Jo turns eighteen and becomes all grown up. The dresses were perfect for the day, and she partied with friends until the wee hours of Sunday morning. We fearlessly continued our shopping quests for the next couple of weeks, still trying to outsmart the occasional thunderstorm, largely succeding, and getting caught in nothing nearly as ghastly as that mall afternoon. It’s summer on the east coast, after all, and you really can’t let potential storms stop you from shopping for those “basics”.
Kelli
Kelli Margaret was born on December 4, 1986, two weeks late, at 6 lbs. 10 oz. and 18 inches long. She was so tiny, so much smaller than her brother, but she would turn out to be a triple handful!
I delivered Kelli via C-Section after 21 hours of labor. We were trying for a VBAC, which is a vaginal birth after Cesarean, but my body just would not progress, so after a couple hours of begging, my doctor finally agreed to deliver her. I had a local anesthetic, and therefore was wide awake when Kelli was born. This would be a very different experience than having Tommy, because I had a general anesthetic with him, fast asleep.
The moment Kelli was born, she began to cry, and I didn’t know it in all my happiness and bliss at the time, but getting her to stop crying would be one of my life’s greatest challenges. Tom was in his glory, so happy that we had a baby girl. He watched the whole surgery from start to finish, and as soon as she was out, he got to hold her. He brought her near me, but not near enough in my opinion. This would be the beginning of what I would consider a lack of bonding, and this lack of bonding would impact my relationship with her the rest of her life. Make no mistake about it though; I loved this baby so much. She had coal black hair, fondly reminding me of my mom.
Once again, we went through the business of counting our baby’s fingers and toes, and once again, we could be thankful for a perfect little being. This time, though, because I had a local anesthetic, I did not get Kelli for over 12 hours. The time leading up to our first visit with her was filled with me being left to lay on my back so that the spinal injection site would heal properly and I would not have the horrible spinal headaches that can sometimes come with a local anesthetic.
Unfortunately, while I was supposed to be lying on my back, the fill-in nurses in recovery moved me onto my side several times at my request. I was so high from the anesthetic, I had forgotten that I was not supposed to be moved. The fill-in nurses in recovery must have forgotten too, because they moved me at will. Consequently, my spinal injection site did not heal properly, and I would experience earth-shattering spinal headaches for the next six days. As a result, I was not able to hold or care for Kelli without horrific pain, and I only actually got to have her twice during that seven days; hence, the lack of bonding between mother and child.
During one of the two visits with Kelli, I tried to nurse her. That was a fiasco. She did not suckle to me easily and cried and screamed the whole 45 minutes. The nurses helped me and she finally got her fill. Oh I forgot to mention that I had not planned to nurse her. My doctor went on vacation right after delivering Kelli and although it was in my orders, the nurses forgot to bring me my breast milk dry up pills. So I had no choice, but to nurse her, as I suffered severely with heavily engorged breasts and headaches to kill to boot. The nurses tried to talk me into nursing her on a regular basis, but with the headaches, I could not even consider it.
Finally on Day 6, a doctor I did not know performed a blood patch procedure on me. He put me in a twilight sleep, drew blood from my hand and patched the spinal injection site with it. Before that procedure, I was pretty sure that I was going to die. I called my dad up and told him that I loved him. I could not remember the last time I had ever told him I loved him, but with me being certain that I wasn’t going to make it, I thought I’d better let him know. After the blood patch procedure, I was in recovery for about an hour. Almost instantaneously, my headaches disappeared, and I wondered why this procedure hadn’t been done on me sooner.
On Day 7, I was released along with my newborn baby girl. She must have wondered, “Who in the world are these people anyway?” Tom brought the car up to the hospital entrance, and he would spend the next 45 minutes, trying to get Kelli to stop screaming and thrashing long enough to get her belted into the car seat. And that is no exaggeration. I just sat on the bench waiting for him patiently and calmly but oh so naturally crying right along with my baby. People would stop and stare and smile at me sadly. Many seemed to know my angst.
Finally, we would get to my cousin’s house to pick up Tommy and try to start a new life together with two kids. Kelli cried during the ride, which was a new one for Tom and I, because Tommy had loved car rides so much. We got her out of the car seat and into my cousin’s house, and she would continue to cry for the next year or so. She would cry especially hard when someone other than Tom or I would hold her. She was a real gem and making my life a living nightmare.
This time, our baby did not suffer from colic, but it didn’t matter, she would cry anyway. She would cry during bath, in between meals, and especially during visits with family and friends.
When Kelli was six weeks old, I went to work for Underwriters Laboratories as a word processing operator during the second shift. It was a part-time position, 30 miles from home, and I worked from 6 p.m. until 11 p.m. Monday through Friday and from 7 a.m. until 1 p.m. on Saturdays. This gave me the opportunity to be home with the kids during the day and Tom would take care of them at night.
Even on weekend nights, Kelli would have nothing to do with me. She was a Daddy’s Girl through and through. Only Tom was “allowed” to hold her in the evenings and even sometimes during the day. She still would not allow anyone other than Tom or I to hold her, and that would remain true until she was a year old.
She sure was a cute little thing though. I loved her as much as I loved my son, but a little differently. This was my baby girl, even if she didn’t seem to think much of me.
When Kelli was three months old, she showed signs of growing a little hair. She had about oh three strands of hair or maybe four. I was so excited about it, that I put a little barrette in her hair, but soon regretted it. I accidentally pinched her poor little head in that barrette, and she screamed bloody murder at me. Man, she was pissed! She thrashed around so much that I had a hard time getting the barrette out, but finally was able to. Those tears streamed down her little face as though someone had tried to take her out. Soon, I would discover that Kelli’s hair was never meant for barrettes. I think she didn’t grow a full head of hair until she was about nine years old.
So begins the story of Baby Number 2. Oh yes, little Tommy loved his baby sister. He wanted to hold her and kiss her at every whim. I have a picture of Tommy peaking over the bassinette at his sister and smiling at her. And I can’t close this blog without mentioning how helpful he was to me too. He was an awesome new diaper getter, and when the swing would stop, and Kelli would wale, he would run around the apartment trying to do whatever he could to make her stop. Finally, he figured out that if he pushed the swing back and forth manually, her crying would curtail.
This all sounds like it was such an awful ordeal, and believe me, there were times when I thought I would tear my hair right out of my head, but Kelli really was a sweet baby; so cuddly and playful and a good little eater too. She had a smile to break your heart, and she sure loved her big brother. It broke my heart to leave my babies each afternoon to go to work, but we had just bought our first house and really needed the second income to cover all the bills.
And so our family was growing, and we were elated!
On Becoming a Mother or Terri Becomes a Woman
On June 23, 1985, I underwent a metamorphosis. I was a new woman. Reborn, as it were. On that early Sunday morning, I became a mother.
Tom and I had been married just three short months, when I discovered I was pregnant. It was certainly a joyful time, but also a scary one. My husband was just 20 years old, and I was only 22. We’d had a large traditional Catholic wedding with a full Mass. Our reception was one that our guests would remember fondly for years to come, with 150 guests, a family style dinner, a versatile DJ and an open bar until midnight.
My mother was gravely ill, succumbing to metastatic breast cancer fast. Sadly, she would live only 15 more days. Still, I have wonderful memories of that awesome day. After my mother passed away, I became quite lonely, as we had been very close, as close as a mother and daughter could possibly be. I longed for her, or for something that I could love as much as I loved her. So, I got the wild idea that my new husband and I should have a baby.
Tom was not quite 20 when we were married. What a good sport he was! We probably would have waited to get married, but both of us dearly wanted my mother to be able to attend our wedding, so we moved the date up. Tom had not planned on having a baby so soon after our marriage, but as he would many times in the future, he agreed to my cockamamie idea.
My husband barely had to smile at me, and we discovered I was pregnant! It was a normal pregnancy, with the expected morning sickness, GERD and quickening at four months gestation. I was in my glory!
On June 22, 1985, in the early morning hours, just one year and eight days married, I began to have very light, easy labor pains. I thought, “This is going to be a breeze!” How naïve I was!
After 26 hours of labor (2 hours of pushing), my sweet little son, Thomas John V, was born by C-section, at 8 lbs. 5-1/2 oz. and 22 inches long. I was in love all over again! When the nurse handed me my quivering newborn son, I was a bit nervous, wondering when they were going to provide the manual to me too. But I thought to myself, how will I hold him and hold the manual at the same time? I’d work it out! I could do anything! I was a mom now. I missed my own mom very much, but I knew after the ordeal I went through having this little perfect being, I could do anything!
As soon as the nurse left the room, Tom and I got to the business at hand. No, we did not nurse our new baby and no, we did not cuddle him and welcome him into the world. I laid this little thing down on the bed and quickly began to remove his clothes. My husband didn’t quite understand what I was doing, but as soon as I said, “I’m going to count his fingers and toes,” he was on board. Together, we practically tore at this poor little baby’s sleeper and finally got him down to his diaper. We were both relieved and thankful to count 10 fingers and 10 toes. Everything else seemed to be in order, except there was one strange thing on this baby that I didn’t quite recognize. What about this little spouty thing here? Was that?! Could that be? I had never seen an uncircumcised penis before. I couldn’t be sure my son was 100% o.k. My young husband took one quick look and assured me that our son was perfect. We quickly redressed him and rested and marveled at this new little creature, while I waited for the nurse to bring me the manual. It would be an extra treat to get a PowerPoint presentation too.
As you already know, the manual and PowerPoint presentation never surfaced, much to my chagrin. I wondered, “How can one be entrusted to the most important job in the world without a manual?!” I was gutted! I guessed I would have to rely on trial and error and the help of my sister, a mom of two by then. My father wasn’t going to be any help, for at the time, I didn’t think he knew a thing about parenting.
While in the hospital, recuperating from the C-section delivery, my baby was cared for during nights, and I was left to rest. I had no idea what I was in for. The first night we brought little Tommy home, I fell asleep quickly with the sweet little sleeping child next to me in the beautiful bassinet we had especially purchased just for him. Two hours later, in splendid slumber, I would hear the strange and far away sound of a bleating lamb. I would wonder when the annoying lamb would stop its whining just as it got louder. I can remember suddenly realizing, “Oh my God, what have I done?” I was totally not prepared for interrupted sleep, but I would soon find out that I could look forward to many sleepless nights of frantically turning the pages of Dr. Spock’s Baby Book, and my poor husband walking the little waling bag of poop from the front of the apartment to the back over and over again.
After three solid months of apartment walking, late night baths and 2 a.m. car rides, our newborn son seemed to settle in pretty well. I even thought he might like us a bit. He turned out to be a pretty easy going fellow after all. His precious baby smiles and coos made me quickly forget that 26-hour labor and all those sleepless nights of trying to figure out what he wanted from us. Yes, I would forget all that drama… for another blissful 15 months, until the second one was born…
