At Nest’s Edge

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      I gave birth to my son six days after I celebrated my twenty-third birthday. Although he came into this world four weeks early, while I was lying on the couch with my feet propped up, and staring at the basketball my belly had become, it seemed like an eternity before he would arrive.

     I had always looked forward to being pregnant and to becoming a mother, and to be able to experience all the joys I had heard were attached to those roles. Yet my first experience with pregnancy was anything but joyous. Two weeks into gestation, morning nausea rolled in, and soon stretched into the afternoon and evening hours. I kept hearing that it would end in a few weeks, but those weeks turned into months, and I felt like I had been given a permanent sentence on the deck of the Andrea Gail in the perfect storm. Everything came in waves. Waves of oatmeal and toast and peanut butter, waves of turkey sandwiches on wheat and yogurt with fresh berries. Endless, relentless waves. Even the suggested ginger ale and saltine crackers made their way up the shoot, and sometimes would bubble right out my nose, which felt like a vinegar and baking soda experiment was being performed in my nostrils.

     I dreaded climbing into our old Ford truck on work mornings, knowing that the storm would rise up as soon as I shifted into drive. It didn’t matter that I had already seen my Wheat Chex twice, there was always more waiting in the bilge. It was only two short miles to the office where I worked, and I would fight back the waves as I punched the gas pedal, praying that I would make it there before the second round of barfing would hit. It didn’t matter how fast, or slow, I drove, the nausea swelled up from my stomach and sloshed into my throat with every curve on the road. I would tense the muscles in my esophagus, and press my tongue tight against the roof of my mouth and fight it back. But like clockwork, I would make it to mile marker 1.2, where I would have to whip the truck over into the entrance of a dirt driveway in front of a cute little old house and barf in their ditch. I never looked toward the windows of the house, but I’m sure I spoiled someone’s morning breakfast more than once.

     I read all the books I could about pregnancy and delivery, and I took a natural childbirth class so that, despite my months of suffering with nausea, I would be fully prepared to experience a wonderful delivery. At least that’s what my natural childbirth instructor indicated. I admired this laid-back woman, whose belly bulged with third term pregnancy, and who had already delivered four children au naturele. She surely must know what she was talking about. I listened intently from her sofa as she took a squatting position, to keep her birthing muscles limber, and shared her labor and delivery secrets to a room full of wide-eyed, young women with swollen bellies, each having great hopes of an easy, pain-free birth.

     My co-worker had already given birth to a son and was pregnant with her second child. She told me that that woman was full of bologna and I was wasting my money. Then she said that I had better get ready for the worst pain I’ll ever have in my life. I didn’t like that she told me that. In fact, it really irritated me. I told her that she wasn’t being a very nice friend. She responded by saying that she was my only friend because she was the only one who was telling me the truth. I still didn’t like her for saying it.

     When my labor started I was a little anxious, but mostly excited. Soon I would be holding a new little life in my arms, and I could fit into my skinny jeans again. The first few hours were easy and I was proud that I had learned so much from my au naturele instructor. But as the hours passed, I began to wonder why the labor magic wasn’t working so good. By the time my labor pains were close enough that it was time to drive to the hospital, I wanted to slug my husband. I accused him of hitting every bump in the road, which intensified the pain of each contraction. Where did he learn to drive?

     When we arrived at the hospital, I was quickly rolled into labor and delivery. Everything hurt. Every movement of the bed. Every time the nurse checked my vitals and moved the monitor on my belly. Every touch. Every sound was magnified. I wanted to yell, “No talking!”, but all my muscles were contracted, immoveable, including my voice box, which was silently screaming. I finally was able to drum up a loud, “SHHH!!” The room fell silent. I glanced up at my husband and saw him looking wide-eyed at the nurse. Then he took a step back away from my bed. Smart guy.

     Then suddenly it sounded like all the bells and whistles went off from the equipment surrounding me. There was a blur of nurses and doctors entering and leaving the room. Baby was in trouble. I was being prepped for an emergency c-section.

       My concern for the little life inside of me surpassed the intense pain I was experiencing. It didn’t matter what I had to go through, the pain, the probing, the needles, as long as our baby arrived safely into this world. Through some quick maneuvering by the nurses, and with the help of two doctors, a c-section was avoided. I gave one last gut-breaking push and heard the first cry of our son. I had witnessed my first miracle.

       As they rolled me out of the delivery room, I thanked God for watching over our baby boy, then I wondered how I was going to break the news to my husband that I was never going to go through that again. Two years later I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Then a few years beyond that, our second daughter arrived, adding to our joy. They say that time heals wounds, or sometimes bad memories, but I think God gave me a slight case of amnesia between births, so that I could have the little family I had always dreamed of. He has a way of knowing just what I’m going to need, sometimes in small doses, and sometimes in big doses. 

       Many seasons have come and gone since my husband and I entered the role of parenthood. Our son grew up and moved three states away. That made me cry. Our second child grew up and got married. I cried at her wedding. At least she stayed in town. Then she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I cried again. Recently, I hugged our third baby goodbye at the airport. She’ll be living miles across the Pacific ocean while attending nursing school. You guessed it, I bawled. She did too.

    Crepe paper streamers were left strung across our living room ceiling, and for days I tripped over balloons in every downstairs room of the house, all remnants of a surprise going away party given to our daughter by her friends on the weekend she said goodbye to our small town. I just couldn’t make myself take the decorations down right away. It would be like saying, well, that’s that – that phase of life is done. Mooovin’ on.

       There was a point in my life when I began looking forward to empty nest. In time, each child wobbled at the nest’s edge and I held my breath when I saw that they were ready to spread their wings and fly. But now that I was standing at the edge of the nest watching our last baby fly away into the sunrise of her new life, I wasn’t sure I liked it. I wasn’t sure that I was ready to leave behind a noisy house full of kids, and night-time talks, and mocha dates.

       The once full dinner table has been dwindling, but I have left both leaves in, because it is big and long and inviting. I like to remember how it was when it was crammed full of our kids, and the neighbors kids, and kids from the church youth group, and when our kids teammates gathered there for meals. It was exhaustive, yet fulfilling, and I really loved every minute of it.

       It didn’t matter that on one family vacation, while traveling across Utah in our minivan, with a whining two year old in the back seat, accompanied by her two siblings who were pushing each others hot buttons, that I had threatened to sell them to the nearest family, because people who lived in Utah liked lots of kids. It didn’t matter that there were years of clothes left on the floor, and a continuous parade of socks without a partner. It didn’t matter that I was a constant chauffeur to soccer games and baseball games, basketball games and track meets. It didn’t matter that I had spent hours sitting in the waiting room at the orthodontist office while awkward smiles were turned into lovely grins, or that I spent many long nights in our wooden rocking chair comforting a feverish child.

       There were late nights when I laid restless in bed until I heard our teenagers turn the lock on the front door. There were times when I prayed on my knees for them when they were struggling, and growing, in a very tough world. Sometimes I wondered if we were going to make it. But deep down I knew we would, and we did, and every minute of it was worth it.

       The day I took the crepe paper streamers down, I walked through the house and popped every colorful balloon while reminiscing all those moments, and days, and years that I hold like shining diamonds in my heart. And that’s the truth of it. I don’t have to leave them behind. They will always stay with me, and for that, I am truly grateful.

   

   

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