On Becoming a Mother

Babies arrive according to their own time schedule. It was 1968. Wednesday. Early, maybe 5:30-ish. I'd had no previous personal experience in birthing a baby but there was no mistaking that what awakened me was labor pain! How did I find myself in this situation? Here's the back-story...

During our stay in Zurich, Switzerland, while still almost newlyweds, we both got sick after eating fondue. Frank recovered quickly from that bit of food poisoning but I did not. By the time we got to Innsbruck, Austria, I was really sick. While in St. Polten, staying with the Paschings, there wasn't much that I kept down for long. It didn't help that the heavy smell of truck and bus exhaust hung in the air mixed with pungent odors of Selchfleisch, Wurstel and Bratwurst. While I could understand nothing of the conversations going on around me, knowing smiles and gestures roughly translated as, "Pregnant?"

While more of the wonders of Europe presented themselves before me during those final couple or three weeks of our trip, my eyes were more drawn to receptacles or tall bushes where I could throw up. I had dreams about baked potatoes. I saw parts of exquisite gardens at Schonbrunn that most likely were not included in the official tour. Journal notes of the summer Frank and I spent in Europe will be revisited in a separate post.

Momentarily feeling better, dinner was a delight that first night on board a BIG boat, leaving France via the port at LeHarve. Though the ship's captain pronounced our crossing of the Atlantic the smoothest in a long time, I spent most of those five days at sea with my head in the toilet. 

Back on US shores, our plan was to tour New York City and Boston. We had just reached the observation deck near the top of the Empire State Building when I began to spot, heavily. I wasn't yet convinced that eating bad food may not be the reason I was feeling so bad. We attempted a hasty exit through crowds and lines and multiple levels of elevators, only to be told, "No! We hear, 'It's an emergency' ALL the time from people like you who don't want to wait in line!" In any case, our touring ended, abruptly.

The scare in New York seemed to have resolved itself. We were again in Salt Lake for a few days before heading for Whidbey Island in Washington State to go fishing. I made it as far as my brother's [Sylvan] in Idaho before having a repeat of the NYC episode. Frank went on to join his father and the fishing expedition. I went to a doctor. No diagnosis was given, just reasons for concern.

Frank would start a new job, beginning in Fall '67, in Ogden, Utah. I had resigned my job at Heiner's Salon and we gave up our apartment when we left the states at the end of May. Now, at the end of August, we moved in with our South parents, Jane and Bill, for a short stay on Commonwealth Avenue until we relocated.

It was good to finally confirm that I was, indeed, pregnant. There had to be some good reason I was sleeping more than usual and enjoying Frank's dad's fresh tomatoes from the garden so much!

I elected to continue my association with Dr. Hall after our move. He couldn't dispel my fears, entirely. The fact that I'd typed Frank's term papers for his Special Education classes, some describing in detail all the things that can go wrong during pregnancy, didn't help, either. But despite still frequent and daily nausea, I gained weight--how was that possible?--and nested, sewing baby clothes and blankets and crocheting booties.  Dr. Hall loved teaching interns and delivering babies though stories were told about him leaving his wife, in labor, standing in the doorway as he backed his little, old Volkswagen Bug out of their driveway and started down their street, then delivering the baby in the car just outside the hospital entrance, arriving there in his PJ's and mismatched socks! Professionally, he was on the cutting edge that included organizing prenatal classes--a new idea at that time--and involving fathers in bonding with their newly born by encouraging them to be present during the birthing process, something not readily accepted by "old school" obstetrical nurses. I was lucky enough to have one of those old, battle-axes making rounds during my first ever, hospital night, following an afternoon delivery.

Evelyn, my brother's wife, called to check on me the evening before my due date. "The backs of my legs ache," was all I could report. "I think you are starting labor". I could hear excited anticipation in her voice. We went on to bed, unbelieving.

As I began this monologue, it was early morning when contractions  became strong enough to wake me. It seemed that we were barely out of the driveway of our rental house on Porter Avenue when my water broke. I had no idea I'd need towels to quell the flood! Frank was more concerned about the drive ahead of us--about 40 miles south--to reach LDS Hospital, in Salt Lake City. As I fussed about soaking everything near me, the passenger-side, rear tire went flat. In heavy traffic and without much space to pull off the highway, Frank worked to jack up the car while asking how far apart my contractions were.

 "Five minutes!"

Then, that apparatus jackknifed in the soft shoulder before the tire was off the ground enough to be able to get it off! "Someone will stop to help." No one did, for what seemed like the l-o-n-gest time. I was counting, contracting, and still leaking. Frank was sweating. At last, a good Samaritan came to our aid, but when they got the spare on, it was nearly flat, too! Panic! Being newbies at birthin' a baby, we didn't know the best was yet to come but was still hours away.

At the hospital, the serious work of labor got underway. Frank pulled out his brief case. A blessed nurse rubbed my back through the pain and by afternoon, all systems were zeroed in on the "Push" command! Now my OB not only delivered babies, he taught interns how to do it. The delivery room was filled with his students, there to witness what became a public viewing of the birth. Forget my concern about such total exposure in a crowd, still scarred by the memory of taunts that came as a packaged deal with my very early onset of developed bazooms, and mandatory showers after PE or the trauma of sharing a three-seater outhouse with Marge South and her daughter my first night of camping with the South family in Island Park,...(breathe), it was hearing my doctor say, "Oops", after handing his cutting instrument to an intern to perform an episiotomy that got my attention! What? But no time for questions. I was fully engaged, trying to remember when to "OO", "EE", and "AH-H" my way through breathing techniques, hoping for relief. To make this a little more memorable, a nurse--lovely she was...not, but cranky she was--ordered Frank to, "Sit on that chair, do NOT move, and do NOT touch anything!" Oh, she was not a fan of this father-present-for-the-birth idea. Just as I wanted to say, "Please, could you turn up the drip," I heard a strong, healthy cry and there he was, our baby boy.

This story could end there but I'm not ready to stop. It could have been that same lady-in-white, putting Frank in his place, who changed my dressings in those first hours after delivery, pads held in place by an elastic belt with a sort of hook, front and back. In doing so, she stretched the elastic towards herself, rather than bending towards me and when the change was complete, she just let go, snapping me sharply with the elastic! I had just given birth for the first time so that canal had just been broken in and was more than a little sore. Stitches closing the 'Oopsie', tears and all, were not only fresh wounds, the stitches had been stitched twice! Why? Because the third stage of labor did not happen, so Dr. removed his handiwork to allow slow and careful manual peeling of placenta and attached membranes. Then everything was re-sewn. "OUCH"! Hospital Grapevine News was reporting that the snapper had been given a notice of dismissal. Must have had to finish her shift, first. As I said...lucky me.

When my baby was handed to me, wrapped in a blanket so that only his two little eyes, tiny nose, and mouth were showing, I immediately unwrapped him to count toes and fingers. He was quickly snatched from my arms, wrapped up tightly, again, and promptly taken back to the nursery. Well, until time to nurse. Then, new nursing moms were pressed to achieve some sort of miracle. Neither baby nor I knew quite how to accomplish this to the satisfaction of anyone. The one who was so eager not to let me unwrap my baby was eager to send him home with me without instructions. I spent that first night at home,  in a rocking chair, crying babe in arms, hoping I'd figure out what to do next. 

Becoming a mother? It's a part of who I am.

What Makes a Mother?

My mother became one, with the birth of a son [Burnath Maurice] before her 20th birthday. Two years later, a second son [Elvour Whitney] was born, followed in four years by another [Marion Whitney]. About her next birth Mother wrote, "We feared it was twins [though] we wanted nine boys," but to every one's surprise, the baby was a girl [MerLyn]! Before another brother [Keith Sheryl] arrived eighteen months later, the family survived a terrible car accident that changed Mother's life forever. She wrote of having suffered a miscarriage the winter of '31/'32 and of being ill for the next six months before being diagnosed with asthma. 

Mother may have thought that her sixth child, a boy born in '35 [Sylvan Lowell], would be her last but at age 45, she became MY mother. Despite her age and having felt ill for some time, she thought she might be pregnant. Her doctor said she was just going through "the change of life". Mother quoted Daddy as saying, "She's had six kids. If she says she's pregnant, she must be!" They were told, "It is doubtful that we can save both mother and baby,"  but Mother lived and gave birth to a healthy [and adorable] baby girl [Christie]. (I added the "adorable" part). 

A Disney song lyric, asks, "What makes mothers all that they are?" In her writings, Mother mentioned some of the trials she faced raising seven children, expressed her grief and sorrow for opportunities she felt they missed because of her ill health and the costly search for treatment with the hope of relief but she attributed her personal survival and that of her family to faith--in prayer, in the power of the Priesthood, and in diligent temple service.

When I think of my mother, I think of the healthy, robust, tom-boyish girl she must have been in her youth, and her strength as a young woman, joining with my father at such a young age [18], in making a home for what would become a large family, housed--before my birth-- in just two rooms, on a small acreage, less than 60 acres.

Mother was very handy with a needle. She taught me to crochet before I was a teen--no small task since she, right-handed like me by nature, crocheted left-handed. [Mother had her right hand badly burned in her youth but learned to use her left hand during a year of healing]. She taught me to do simple embroidery though I was a poor and somewhat unwilling student when it came to darning and mending. I was the kid under the quilt stretched taunt on a frame, pulling a threaded needle through at the underside of the material, then sending it back through to the top.

Thinking of what makes mothers, mine always sang at night until I fell asleep. She hummed or whistled while she did her chores. She always had a little ditty to sing to drive home the message of a teaching moment or just to be silly. She sat through endless hours, without complaint, of my practice times--piano, flute, organ or singing. I think I first learned to sing and hold different parts--soprano, alto, tenor--by listening to Mother and Daddy. She most often sang alto; My father sang tenor. Mother taught me, as she did all her children, to memorize verses--what she called "Readings"--and to stand before an audience to recite them. I was put on stage, also, to plunk out simple one-note tunes on a little, red toy piano. I credit my mother with having blessed me with a near absence of stage fright, given these simple opportunities to perform or speak in front of others. Oh, I'd get the kind of nervous that helps bring out your best performance, but I never experienced the debilitating kind of stage fright until I was nearly 60!

I don't remember either of my parents being disciplinarians. I was, after all, a perfect child! That's what I've told my kids and grand-kids. Well..., there was that time I dropped the grain sack, spilling most of the contents, as a mouse ran up one of my pant legs and down the other, that I have previously mentioned. My daddy put on his angry eyes on that occasion. As a teen, I sassed Mother. She slapped me right across the mouth. That could be what converted me to introvertism, keeping my thoughts to myself and my words well away from the tip of my tongue, lest they slip out and be heard. 

If I close my eyes, I can see my mother standing at the ironing board, so carefully pressing her temple clothes or her pioneer costume. Both were important to her, the organization of families through temple service and keeping family history alive whether by standing in costume on a parade float or writing histories and recording genealogy research, by hand with pen and ink. "Always use black ink for records," she'd tell me. She supported and helped organize family reunions and by my aunt's account, always had an open door for family and friends.

Mother was frugal to a fault but generous to those she thought were in need. She didn't eat unless everyone could eat. Home wasn't home to her without tons of house plants, crocheted doilies, and her kitchen table was forever set with a bottle of pickles and a jar of jam...for every meal. She was a simple cook of hearty meat-and-potatoes kind of meals--a little bit of this and a little bit of that. She expected a blessing on the food at every meal, one of those done kneeling at chairs around the table, following daily family prayer.

What makes mothers? I'm nearing 70--the new "50", I'm told--with time to consider and ponder my own motherhood experience. I've been blessed to have also been tutored by a sister and five sisters-in-law. Still, I've had painful moments of self-doubt about my role. A wise friend once counseled me, saying something to the effect that a mother can't take credit for what a child has achieved by their own doing. Neither should a mother take credit for their less-than-successful shortcomings. It's been difficult for me to find the healthy and proper balance, often feeling unwarranted guilt and worry. "Have I done too little? Have I done too much?" I know you know what I mean. Being a mother gives a woman an opportunity for personal growth. Your kids can show you who you really are and what you're made of. Raising a family [or two] is not for the faint of heart. Like old age and ill health, Motherhood isn't for sissies. There are more downs than ups but one special moment of "up" can carry a tired mother through days--even longer--of tough times and hard work. As a mother, I'm still a work in progress. It's a part of who I am.