Something about not being overtly maternal. Something about knowing you could be a mother... but not necessarily yearning for it, the way some of our girl friends have and do.
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Judah had a procedure on his ears on Friday. We woke up early, before the sun, and I did my best to keep him sleepy and warm and distracted from the hunger I knew he was feeling. No food or water since 8 o'clock the night before. Those were the rules.
We bundled up and made a few ridiculous trips to my dark, quiet office and back to our dark, quiet house looking for some necessary things I had absentmindedly forgotten the day before. All while pushing panic and anxiety aside, keeping the what-ifs and apprehension at bay.
I picked up Judah's dad and I had to let him drive, because his legs are too long to sit in the passenger seat. His almost seven foot tall frame barely fits in the Corolla at all.
And we drove to the hospital.
I had quiet flashbacks of repressed memories of the six of us in the mini-van. I only remember driving at night with the whole family, only in the winter, only on Christmas really. But I remember it. I remember hearing the two of them talk and not being able to understand. I remember Garrison Keillor. And I remember associating marriage with being the ones to sit in the front seat. Being a wife, to being the one to sit in the passenger seat, because husbands drive. Daddies always drive.
My mind was reeling, wondering if I could hold it all together. It was a simple procedure to help drain Judah's ears so he would stop having so many ear infections; but it required general anesthesia and I couldn't be back in the OR with him. I worried he would be confused and feel abandoned. I felt guilty.
So the three of us waited in the waiting room, making awkward conversations with people who had no idea what our situation was, who had no idea the hell we've been through to get there... sitting together in the waiting room, the three of us. Almost like a family.
The nurse called me back and I left Judah's dad in the waiting room. We went back to the pre-op room and Judah got his blood pressure taken and one of those strange, beeping monitors they put on grown up's fingers... but they put on his toes. Everyone exclaimed at his hair and at his protruding belly button and at his size in general. Until his dad came back to sit with us, and then the questions stopped. Like now, it all made sense.
And they ask us if we're married and they ask if Judah's a daddy's boy and they ask if Judah's allergic to anything and "oh my god, how tall are you?" and "is there a family history of...".
They quickly take Judah back to the OR and his dad and I wait, cautiously, until we know he's around the corner and then walk quietly, tiredly, anxiously back to the waiting room.
It's a simple procedure. It took just long enough for me to waste a cup of coffee. Then I heard it.
The doors opened and the nurse came out with a sheepish smile and Judah's big man cries bellowed through the hallway and his dad and I stood up, throwing things away and following the nurse. Following Judah's cries. The cries I recognized as well as his face, the cries no one had to tell me belonged to my boy.
There Judah is, then, in the dark post-op room in a nurse's arms. Screaming, eyes closed, bloody cotton balls in his ears. And I reached for him and she made me sit down first, handing me my not-so-little baby and he screamed and screamed. She left the room because she knew, like I knew, there was nothing wrong. But anesthesia is a bear. The fog and confusion it leaves you in as you come out of it is nothing short of bewildering and all Judah knew was he woke up and there were only strangers. I held him and whispered to him and juggled his thrashing body, his flailing arms and legs. He's almost as big as me, without exaggeration. But I rocked and crooned and stood up and sat down. All while his dad looked at us, eyes wide. Uncomfortable. Because what was there for him to do? He didn't know.
You see, I'm not overtly maternal either. I always knew I wanted children -- lots and lots of children. I still do. I crave it, a large family. I grew up telling others I wanted a family who made people ask "how did that even happen?" when we all walked in the door together. Different races, cultures, ethnicities, sizes, genders... that's what I had in mind. People still ask those rude questions, even though it's just the three of us. Even though, for all intents and purposes, we are not a family. How did that even happen...
This morning, after our first full night's sleep since the procedure, Judah climbed into my lap on the couch. Full night's sleep equals 9pm to 6am and so in the wee hours of the morning, Judah and I just sit. It's still dark out and it's still cold and I am out of coffee and out of creamer. So we sit in a daze watching the Today Show. He leans his head back against my collar, his cheek pressed against my cheek and his hand laying on my forearm.
And I think so many things on mornings like these. I think, there is no where else I'd rather be. And, I could be a better mother. And, my family does not look at all like I thought it would.
And there are mornings, just like this one, where I wake up and feel the wind whistle through the holes left by people who never intended to stay, hollowed out places for someone we've never met. And I mourn for them all and do my best to speak them -- the right ones-- into existence.
But that never works. At least not yet.
So we sit, cheek to cheek, and I squeeze his little body and am thankful for him. Thankful that despite my flaws and the deficits I entered motherhood with, we've learned how to do this. How to do the hard things. Answer the hard questions. How to sit still and soothe the crying. How to lay on our backs on the floor and giggle. How to chase each other down the halls.
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