Giving Yourself Permission To Love
I NEVER WANTED TO BE A DIFFICULT CHILD
But that’s the label I received, almost at birth. I cried when the wind blew across the parade ground, because it hurt my ears. My mother didn’t want to hold me, so that task fell to my oldest brother, and sometimes to my Dad.
Mother had just lost a baby, a little boy, 17 months earlier. He only lived for 29 days. She clipped one of the blonde curls from his head as a remembrance, and carried him on her heart the rest of her days. She loved her three little boys and wanted another.
She didn’t want another girl. She already had a sunny, blonde two-year-old who scampered after her three older brothers, confidently joining in their games. And I was born with black hair that eventually turned copper, just like her own. When I cried, she chided, “you are a difficult little one, aren’t you?” She introduced me to others as “the black sheep.” I looked so different from my siblings. I looked just like her.
It’s funny how your place in the family affects your personality, your hopes and dreams and how you are loved. Two more little boys arrived after I did, and eventually a much-wanted baby girl to round out the family. But we weren’t close. It wasn’t that kind of family.
We were your typical Irish families where the words you long to hear are never spoken. You don’t talk about feelings, not ever. It’s just not done. We were, as Dr. James Dobson described, a typical dysfunctional family. Secrets were buried so deep you wouldn’t find them for generations. I could never figure out why my own parents didn’t want me around. Aren’t parents supposed to love their own children?
FINDING OUT YOU CAN LOVE YOUR OWN CHILDREN
Like any child who grows up without expressions of love, I worried: would I be able to love my children? I didn’t have any role models. What was there to draw from, exactly? I asked my older sister. She had come from the same strict, military family.
She shrugged, not unkindly, “you’ll figure it out. I did.”
My first-born, a boisterous, healthy baby girl with brown eyes and copper curls, arrived on the scene. All my worries vanished into thin air. She was perfect, and I fell head over heels in love. Three and a half years later, a quiet, solemn, blue-eyed little girl joined her, and again, it was love at first sight. Two completely different personalities, two little girls who loved each other dearly. I was overjoyed and told them I loved them every day.
They came to me, one day. It was a rare quiet moment in our house. I was actually resting in the rocking chair, a book propped up on my rounded stomach. It looked like I had a basketball in there.
“We think you should have a boy this time, Mommy,” my older daughter announced.
“Oh, that’s what you decided?” I smiled at them. “Why is that?”
“Well,” they looked at each other. “You already have us, and a boy would be nice for Daddy.”
I smiled, hoping God was listening, “that’s a good thought. Let’s see what God sends us.”
My oldest child, now seven, had thought of that too. “Oh, we told God what we wanted,” she assured me. Her four-year-old sister nodded sagely. They had things well in hand.
A few weeks later, they were elated when God honored their request. And their baby brother was a delight as he learned to toddle after them. They even forgave him when he ripped the heads off their Barbie dolls. After all, he was only a little guy. He’d learn. They loved him, and so did I.
WHEN FAMILIES ARE MEANT TO STAY TOGETHER, AND THEY DON’T
But my husband had found himself a girlfriend. When he refused to give her up, I knew our marriage wouldn’t last.
“You can’t have both. We’re not French.” (My apologies to any French readers. I wasn’t feeling politically correct, I was pissed off.)
I resolved to enjoy our three little ones and provide a stable home for them, despite their father’s wandering eye.
All my insecurities about not being loved came to the fore as we had a series of difficult weekend conversations:
“I’m down there by myself during the week. I need a companion.”
“You can’t have a wife and a girlfriend. That’s not good for our marriage.”
“She’s just a friend. Don’t be so dramatic. She wants to know all about us.”
“You have no business telling her personal things. A marriage needs privacy.”
“She’s going through a divorce. She needs a shoulder to lean on.”
“She’s looking for a new husband.”
In the midst of all this turmoil, I found out I was expecting again. Divorce was already looming on the horizon. And I was getting really fat, this time.”
“Wow, you must be expecting a nine-pounder this time,” the midwife commented. We planned another home birth.
My not-quite three-year-old son climbed up in my lap, seeking reassurance. (There wasn’t much room there, but he squeezed in to one side.) He was a quiet little guy who loved dinosaurs and told me about them in detail, pronouncing their multi-syllabic names clearly and describing their natural habitats. These were matters of great importance.
Worries about how we would manage four children in a two-bedroom house would just have to wait. We’d find the money somehow. But my heart was full, and torn in two by my husband’s infidelity. How could I possibly love one more?
LOVE IN THE MIDST OF CHAOS
It was the first day of school and my ten-year-old bolted out of bed, surprised I hadn’t come to wake them. She got on her bathrobe and roused her sister.
“Come on, it’s the first day! We’ve got to get ready!”
Everything happened so quickly. They heard voices from the master bedroom, on the other side of the house, and looked at each other, delighted. Was the baby here already? Daddy had come up for the weekend. He met them in the living room.
“Is the baby here?”
He nodded. “Yes, a little boy.”
“Yay,” my oldest cheered. “I told Mom to have another boy.”
My younger daughter was downcast. “But I wanted a little sister.”
Daddy patted her head, not really listening. He was doing his best to be there for me, in that moment.
“Can you two get yourselves dressed? I need to help Mommy.”
He disappeared back into the bedroom, just in time to catch the second baby who arrived in distress, 45 minutes after her brother. She was choking, her tiny body jackknifing convulsively. No one had known she was there.
An ambulance was called. Two school buses pulled up in front of the house. Seconds later, two ambulances arrived right behind them. The buses were shooed off by the ambulance chief.
“But it’s the first day of school,” the drivers protested. They had no idea what was going on and I was, someone told me later, white as a sheet. I shook my head, too tired to explain. I was losing a lot of blood.
Somehow, the chaos was sorted out. The midwife finally left. She had freaked out when my younger son was born with Down Syndrome, and we couldn’t cope with her negative energy, on top of everything else. The boy had nursed right after he was born. He was napping peacefully, but my infant daughter was gasping for breath and growing weaker by the second.
A friend came over to watch the children while we rushed to the hospital. My infant daughter was given oxygen and calmed right down. The EMT kept checking her, while I sat in a wheelchair, holding my son. The twins were seven weeks premature, about four pounds each. My head was spinning. Five children?
After the first three days, I was discharged, but I stayed for another week, nursing the babies day and night, rushing home in the early hours to see my older children. I did laundry, fixed meals, hugged my children. Their father hung around for a week, watching his ten-year-old daughter take care of her siblings.
Finally, we were all home. My husband left, eager to get back to his girlfriend. The babies were sleeping in a bassinet with handles. I could carry them from room to room. After my seven and eight pound babies, these infants were so tiny. Each one could fit in the palm of my hand, their legs kicking in the air. We had to buy special preemie clothes. Nothing we had saved would fit them for quite a while. Another wonderful friend showed up with a car bed. It would hold both babies.
When I looked into my baby boy’s light blue eyes, it was like looking into eternity. He held all the wisdom of the ages, peaceful and serene. His younger sister was the opposite: tense, restless, but bright as a button, noticing everything going on around her.
I massaged her tiny back, slowly lulling her to sleep. Her brother was already curled up in the bassinet. She wiggled around and came to rest on his shoulder. I could see they’d probably bonded that way in the womb. He was supposed to be the dominant twin, the leader.
There was a moment where they both fell asleep. The older ones wandered into the room and curled up on the couch.
“Can we watch a movie?” they whispered. I wondered if the twins would wake up. But they’d just have to get used to being part of a big family. I nodded.
Miraculously, the twins slept on. My oldest brought in some cookies our neighbor had baked for us. We munched them contentedly, enjoyed the movie. I don’t even remember what it was, maybe one of the Toy Story ones. But there was a moment of peace as we settled in to this new, expanded family.
My six-year-old patted her baby sister, loving her. And I loved them. I didn’t know how we were going to manage, but we would, somehow. As long as they knew they were loved, we’d get through this.
Giving Yourself Permission To Love
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