Henry's Arrival

“What’s my story again, mama?” Tell me again.

Of course, I was overjoyed when my biggest little man wanted to know his birth story on the eve of his birthday. Tomorrow, at 8:34 in the morning, he will turn 6 years old.

I started his story with telling him about early labor and how I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding and tried to write baby shower thank you notes to keep my mind off of the contractions. I told him about Uncle Garrett coming over and wanting to wait for Jeremiah to get home to drink a beer together while I had contractions in the kitchen. I told him about walking up and down the sidewalk with Mrs. Beth until the pain increased. I went on and told him about calling our doula, heading to the hospital, laboring in the shower, and Mrs. Leslie, mama’s midwife, catching him and handing him to me for the first time. His first breath, his first cry, his first introduction to the world happened 6 years ago. His story is engraved in my heart and I hope over the years, it will be engraved in his as well.

His story is so much of my story too. It really is our story. When I look at him now I see a boy with broad shoulders posing as Captain American, with focused eyes building a mobile Lego plane and with increased confidence jumping off the high dive. I don’t see the baby in the pictures that I held so timidly when he was born. He’s changed and so have I. He reminds me of how far we have really come.

It was because of my natural birth with Henry that I entered birth work and trained as a doula. I’ve come to use words like placenta and uterus as common language. My husband even chimes in when he hears of a mama not preparing herself for birth offering wisdom and of course, slipping her my business card. Henry’s birth birthed my passion for birth, for mamas, and for care, especially in the postpartum time.

I look at Henry and see my son but he reminds me of whom I’ve become because of him. He showed me what it means to care for my body during pregnancy, to birth a head-strong son, and to fight for joy in the days following. He has since showed me how to give space to an introvert, how to wait for permission into his world as he creates imaginary worlds out of plastic bricks, and how to never miss a chance to give him love and affection. He is smart, observant, and craves learning.

With each contraction, I remember saying to myself that it was going to be worth it. Henry was certainly worth it. It is because of him that I first became a mother, gained confidence as mother, and realized the importance of supporting other mothers. Thank you, Henry. I’m so glad you’ve come.

On The Day You Were Born by Debra Frasier

'Welcome to the spinning world,' the people sang,

as they washed your new, tiny hands.... 

And as they held you close they whispered into your open, curving ear, 

“We are so glad you've come!'"

My Happy

“But, what about my happy?”

My first-born is a typical first born if you follow conventional birth order wisdom. He has a heart for justice where every problem is only answered in black and white/right and wrong. He is wound tightly, stubborn at times, and enjoys solitude.  Yet can lead his friends into a make believe game of Daniel Boone fighting the “Indians” like he was made to lead the pioneers westward. These are fabulous traits that if channeled correctly will create an adult that most likely will resemble my husband: a hardworking, righteous man who follows through on every word he says.

But, what happens when your next child is born and grows into the most sociable, lovable companion? Conflict, that’s what. “He’s in my room.” “He’s touching my things.” You know, that perfectly position make believe rescue station that involves every truck in our home. He destroys the Lego tower, he jumps enthusiastically into the fort of cushions, and he can’t sit still during big brother’s chance to watch a video because he’s so excited that he’s being included. He’s a “with” person. His older brother is a “without.” It’s really fun, let me tell you.

For a while, I indulged the introvert in Henry. I let him go to his room when guests overwhelmed him. I let him put toys away that he worried about being ruined by playmates or siblings. I made his room his safe place that he alone decided who could enter. And, it helped keep the peace for a while. But, after some wise council, I realized that “keeping the peace” should not be my upmost priority. The twins were older, habits were being formed and I needed to think about how what I was teaching my children today would shape them into the person they would become. Gulp. Big gulp. Talk about responsibility.

Callaway desperately wanted to spend the night in Henry’s room. He would really like the share a room with Henry but the idea of that sends Henry off his rocker. When they worked together one afternoon, they built an incredible fort in our playroom that left enough space for them both to sleep. Callaway would have loved for that plan to actually happen. All set to spend the night with his big brother in the fort they had built together, Callaway might have been the happiest kid at dinner. But, as I imagined, Henry started to doubt sleeping somewhere other than his bed, his room, and his routine. Thinking quickly, as to prevent Callaway’s tender heart from breaking, I suggested that the sleepover happen in Henry’s room. Callaway could bring his mattress into Henry’s room. Callaway was still thrilled. He loves his big brother and really loves being able to go spend as much time as possible with him. I knew Henry wasn’t so sure. I knew this was hard for him. Taking a step outside of routine would be hard. I understood this because I’m the same. I thrive on routine and when routine is broken, I’m shaken.

So here I was with the perfect opportunity to pursue my slow nudge of Henry to step outside of his “normal” and embrace a “new normal.” I was warned that it wouldn’t be easy for him or for me but that it would be worth it for the family. I kept the words of wisdom in my ear… “Value Henry for who God has made him to be but don’t like your entire family revolve around his particularities and what makes him comfortable. We weren’t made to be comfortable. We were made to glorify God by loving others and that certainly isn’t always easy.”

This was a crucial moment. I didn’t want Henry to grow into a person who can’t enjoy the moment because the schedule is altered. Something wonderful is before you and yet the routine of normal overshadows whatever life has suddenly presented you.  I see it in my husband. I see it in me. I see it in Henry. The routine wins. The schedule wins. Relationships can lose out.

I heard crying from upstairs. Like I suspected, Henry was frustrated with Callaway’s zealous desire to tell Henry his every thought as they lay in the dark room as if they hadn’t spent the last 8 hours together. I went up to check and remind Henry how much this will mean to Callaway. Returning downtowns, thinking I had resolved the issue, I went back to watching a show with my husband. Less than 5 minutes, later, hysteric cries rained from the top of the stairs. I head back upstairs. I pray I as I walk that this will be a teachable moment, not just simply, obey mama and go to bed. This was Henry’s heart at stake. I could see it in his eyes. This wasn’t about Callaway. This was all about Henry. And, that was precisely the problem. As Henry complained about Callaway’s talking and moving and adjusting the blinds, Henry’s crying turned into a full on temper tantrum. I told him to stop crying and listen. I explained to him how happy Callaway would be to just spend one night on the floor of his room. It was so easy to make his little brother extremely happy.

“But, what about my happy?” Henry replied. Wow. Did he just say that? It hit me like a ton of bricks. My happy? Isn’t that what I’m most concerned about if I’m honest. I want my twins to nap because daytime rest is good for them, right? Well, what happens if their nap is not as long as I would have hoped? I’m not happy? I wanted to have a quiet house and clean kitchen for at least on hour. My happy is thinking, when is the next time I can go to Home Goods and buy whatever would make our house happy without thinking of how the purchase might affect our budget. My happy is thinking I can eat whatever I want and it won’t affect my waistline. My happy is all about me. My desires. My wants. My time. My comfort. Let’s certainly not mess that up.

The wisdom of my friend came back to me. We were created by God to care for others, not ourselves. Our existence is not simply to be happy, to be comfortable, to be satisfied with what the world has to offer. No, happiness is not a right that if infringed upon is worthy of my anger or frustration no matter how often I believe that lie. Happiness is fleeting. But, joy is lasting. Joy is the assured confidence that we were created by good God that is in control of our lives. We find that joy when we understand who we are in Christ and how our lives can be a blessing to other. There is no time to pity my lack of happiness if I am focused on being joy to others.

That is what Henry finally realized as we finished our conversation that night. It clicked. I saw it in his eyes. He really got it. He understood that our happiness is secondary to the other members of our family and their needs and desires. Serving others starts within our own walls. It means considering my husbands needs over mine. It means Henry thinking about what would make Callaway happy might mean one night of discomfort for him. The greatest moment though is when we can see past that discomfort and realize there is joy in serving others. Our hearts are softened and we can genuinely rejoice with others in their happiness. I pray God will continue to teach our family the joy in serving this way.