Joy Child
He maketh the barren
woman to keep house,
and to be a joyful
mother of children.
Praise ye the Lord.
— Psalm 113:9
Things certainly changed when we added a bonus baby branch
to our family tree, 12 years after the first batch of kids
Instead of playing
golf, my husband now played Big Chief Bumpahead.
My grocery list included "buck-buck" and
"ba-ba" again, and I was saying weird things like, "Moochie
bing-bong boocha boo."
Our three teenagers got a valuable lesson in family
planning, living with a high-decibel baby and the wafting reality of diapers,
fully packed.
We were blessed. But I was acting like a Mother's Day
dropout: too busy to see how lucky I was.
I let the dishes, phone and laundry keep me from seeing that
the baby's fingers had become chubby little triangles and her knees had
parallel fat folds . . . Geometry Girl!
I was busy reading the paper, and didn't have time to spin
her around in her Super Saucer to get her dizzy and make her eyes roll and her
little shoulders shrug in helpless laughter.
I was too sleep-deprived to plant a thousand kisses on those
soft cheeks, too stressed out to notice that when she shook something with her
right hand, her empty left hand shook, too.
Then one day, in a hurry, I stuffed her like a pink sausage
into her snowsuit. I didn't notice her adorably-shaped peanut head, nor how she
had her daddy's eyes and my thighs. I was late, and I was too tired.
We rushed to the teenagers' basketball game, and sat with
the other fogies. We played Pass the Bod. Women up and down the rows all took
turns holding the baby. I kept busy watching the game, taking a break, pretty
much oblivious to my own baby, on purpose.
When it was over, the baby was several rows up in the lap of
a pretty blonde stranger, giggling and rubbing noses.
I went up there and told my age-old, old-age motherhood
jokes: you know, how we'll need matching walkers . . . how my elderly elbow
hurt because of the heavy infant seat and I needed a cane in one hand to carry
it with the other . . . how I could buy diapers with my senior citizen's
discount card . . . how one day soon the baby would have more teeth than I did.
. . .
The stranger didn't want to let the baby go, but finally,
sweetly, did. Then she said:
"I envy you."
Me? Fertile Myrtle of the Geritol set? I was about to ask
sarcastically whether she was taking her medication . . . when I saw that her
eyes had filled with tears.
"She's a joy child," she said.
Oh, my gosh. Envy? Me? I must've looked puzzled, because she
added:
"I've had eight miscarriages."
The gym went poof! Everyone but us disappeared. My throat
choked up. I sat down. We talked.
I was relieved to learn that she did go on to have two fine
sons. But eight times, she had to go through losing an unborn child. She and
her husband had wanted lots of kids, especially a daughter or three.
She had dealt with her sorrow by working with a program for
needy children. She was there giving those children her love when they needed
it, with warm hugs and encouragement. Through this service, she felt that she
became a mother over and over and over again. It gave her great joy.
We became instant friends, a lasting alliance. She isn't
bitter, not a bit. Any chance she gets, she loves to hold a child, anybody's
child, for as long as she can. Children complete her. They're her favorite
thing. She reminded me that they're God's favorites, too.
I began to see things a little clearer, through her eyes.
That night, I got down on my knees and gave my baby to my
new friend, in spirit. I dedicated my baby to all those who know that even when
you want with all your heart the one thing you can't have, you still have God.
And He's enough.
He wants you to be blessed and He'll bless you, in His way.
It might not be the way you expect. But it'll be real. It'll be good. You'll
have joy. You will.
That's the secret for all those who know that every child's
a joy child — diapers, decibels and all.
It took a real mother to remind me. †
