It seems only fitting to follow-up my last post about Kid #1 with a story about #2. If you read the previous post you will know that we desperately wanted to have children and were told it wasn’t going to happen. You would think that if it happened once, one might be wary that it could happen again despite the odds. But no. This is not a story about logic or reason. This is about surprises, grace, patience (or the lack thereof), blessings, and one very miserable mommy.
It was a little after Christmas. I was exercising and eating healthy. All kinds of medical issues run on both sides of my family so I figured now was a good time to help fight genetics. The problem? I wasn’t losing weight. In fact, I was gaining it and I was extremely bloated. There’s a hot picture for you. Anyway, after talking with a friend I went to the doctor with the idea I needed my thyroid checked. Then came the question heard ’round the world:
Doctor: “Is there a possibility you are pregnant?”
Me: “Um, yeah. It’s possible, but not very probable.”
Doctor: “Before we run any blood tests, lets rule it out.”
She handed me a little cup to pee in. I still wasn’t thinking this could be a real possibility. I have crazy ovaries that don’t work right. Now I have heard that having a baby can sometimes sort out the plumbing issues in women, but there was still my husband’s swimmers that were about as good as Ray Charles trying to see a sunset. Plus, I had a 9 month old. A 9 month old, you say? Yes, a 9 month old. So this just wasn’t convenient as well as not probable. Let’s go back to that fateful day at the doctor’s office.
Doctor: Well, I have your results. It’s not your thyroid…
I add the … because I’m not exactly sure what she said after that. The room went fuzzy and my head started to spin. I was pregnant. And just in case you missed it, I had a 9 month old.
Fortunately, this pregnancy lacked the drama of the 1st. My only real complaint was it happened to be hotter than Hitler’s suite in Hell that summer. I’m talking 90+ degrees in September hot when I was 8 months pregnant. Oh, and by the way I was huge. And by huge I mean Large and In Charge huge. If any of you have ever seen the episode of Scrubs where a very pregnant Jordan comes tromping down the hall to “Isn’t She Lovely” by Stevie Wonder, yeah, well that was me.
In the beginning of October I held my heart in my hands for the second time. Joshua David was a 9 lb, 7 oz bundle that was a pain in the butt since his first breath. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him. In fact I loved him very much which is why I never sold him to the gypsies like I thought about doing so often. He was a screamer. I know what you’re thinking, ” Babies are supposed to cry sometimes.” Well, quit judging me because if he was your kid you would have thought the same thing. I tried to warn the Dr. about Josh when he came in for a post-op check. He gave me the old, “Don’t worry, I’ve heard thousands of babies cry. I’m used to it.” And then came that bundle’s wail. Which sounded more like the evil hiss from Charlie Daniel’s “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” than anything human. The Doctor’s face was priceless and he confirmed my suspicions when he said, “You’re right. I’ve never heard one quite like that before.”
The crying didn’t stop there. For 6 months Joshy cried. Day and night he cried. He didn’t sleep so neither did I. I didn’t like him. I loved him but I just didn’t like him. Our family doctor said I didn’t have post pardum. It was just the natural response of anyone who was going through what I was dealing with. And then one night I lost it. I handed him to my husband and went to our bedroom and cried. No, I wailed. It was the soul wrenching cry of a mother who is literally at her wits end. At the risk of causing Josh years of therapy I will admit that I prayed that God would send someone who wanted a son to take my child because I was convinced that God had made a mistake.
But God doesn’t make mistakes.
He just doesn’t. He makes opportunities for us to trust Him. He makes miracles. But He never makes mistakes. The very next day a lady at church suggested that we try changing our laundry detergent. My son didn’t have any visible skin reactions so I figured that it was another wasted attempt to “fix” him but at that point if someone had told me to stand on my head wearing nothing but cowboy boots, spin counter clockwise, and say, “there’s no place like home…” I would have done it. I washed several days worth of stuff including sheets, washcloths, a couple of towels, outfits. I mean come on, it was going to take a couple of days to see if it works right? That night my son slept through the night for the first time. I quickly stopped using anything with any dyes or scents and my little pain in the butt stopped crying all the time. In fact, he was actually smiling! And laughing! And I started to remember that I liked being a mom.
Joshy is now 15 months. He is still a little more needy than your average bear but I have grown to like him. A lot. He has the best laugh in the whole world and I will match him up against anyone big or little, young or old. I can see now that God was bringing me to a new place. A place that is completely dependent upon Him. I couldn’t fix Josh. The doctors didn’t fix Josh. God fixed Josh only after I gave up trying to do it myself, asked for His help and really wanted His help alone. Isn’t that the way it usually goes? If only I didn’t wait until I didn’t have any other choice but to depend on God. If only I turned to Him first instead of a last resort. Well, I could go on about ‘if onlys’ or I could learn from my failures. I don’t always get it right, but I do trust God more now than I did before there were two.