Prologue
There really are places in your heart you don’t even know exist until you love a child. ~Anne Lamott
The human voice is potent. The sound penetrates the human body to be heard by a developing fetus within the womb. Parental voices forge the original filters through which all of a child’s future communication and experience is heard. The reliability of those filters is paramount, for through them a child begins to know what they believe about themself, others, the world, and their place in it.
My parents’ voices remain the primary narrators of my earliest memories. Their words are at the heart of the story I wish to tell. “Just wait and see,” they told me. “Someday you’ll know what we mean.” If they said it once, they said it a thousand times, “One of these days when you have children, you’ll understand.”
Repeated emphatically, these prophetic statements were bewildering. How would having children make what they were telling me more understandable? I was just a kid myself. And the circumstances surrounding these comments did little to shed light on their meaning or relevance. Whatever pertinence my parents thought these remarks had in countless, diverse situations, was lost on me.
I recall, more than once, limping into the house bruised and bleeding after wrecking the bicycle. Mom would come running to assess my injuries. “You scared me to death,” she chided while cleaning and bandaging my wounds. “It’s not that bad,” I insisted reassuringly. “You just don’t understand. Wait ‘til you’re a parent,” she’d mumble, shaking her head.
Then there was the first time I asked permission to attend a week-long, sleep-away camp. Oblivious to the anxiety this seemingly innocuous request caused, I happily anticipated the novelty of sleeping in a bunk bed in a cabin, hiking in the woods, and cooking on a campfire. Meanwhile, my parents contemplated the dangers lurking while I was sleeping in a bunk bed, hiking in the woods, cooking on a campfire. When they came to collect me at the end of the week, Mom exclaimed, “It feels like you’ve been gone for a month. All week, it felt like a part of me was missing.” Her response to my puzzled look was to hug me tight and say, “Never mind. Someday you’ll understand.”
Becoming a licensed driver introduced a whole new realm of possibilities for those tiresome remarks. Failing to call upon reaching my destination threw them into a panic. Returning home after the anticipated time, I’d find them standing at the front door with furrowed brows, hair graying before my eyes. “You’re late! We’ve been worried sick,” they declared. “I’m fine. You worry too much,” I countered. “You don’t understand. Just wait ‘til you have kids,” they’d utter in concert.
On the other hand, the circumstances could just as easily be auspicious in nature. Good grades, awards, performances, graduations, or other personal accomplishments, were steadfastly recognized. “We’re so proud of how hard you’ve worked,” they’d proclaim. “It’s not a big deal,” I’d protest. “Maybe someday you’ll understand,” they’d reply.
The most mystifying instances were those that occurred for no apparent reason. In the midst of doing nothing of consequence, as far as I was concerned, something they heard me say or saw me do would elicit a hug and kiss, a squeeze of the hand, or a wink and a smile. “What was that for?” I’d wonder. “Just for being our daughter,” they’d say in earnest. “I know. I know. When I have kids I’ll understand,” I sighed, eyes rolling. “Someday, if you’re lucky,” they reiterated.
In hindsight, the common thread running through all these situations was a heightened intensity of emotion – fear, worry, relief, pride, joy. But for nearly three decades, their sage predictions remained shrouded in mystery. Then, the someday they’d foretold finally arrived.
Early one Saturday morning in March of 1990, after nearly forty weeks of planning, preparing, worrying, wondering, and waiting, the doctor announced it was time. A quick call to both pairs of soon-to-be grandparents informed them of the impending arrival of their first grandchild. A hasty inventory of the suitcase, packed for weeks with baby attire and postpartum essentials, was conducted before exiting the apartment. Closing the door behind us, we clasped hands, secure in the knowledge that we were eager and ready for all the ways our lives were about to change.
The drive to the hospital remains etched in my memory. Cotton candy clouds were sparsely scattered across a sky of Forget-Me-Not blue. Everything was in full bloom, daffodils, tulips, dogwood, and azaleas, affording us the most spectacular spring we’d witnessed during our five-year odyssey in Athens, Georgia.
Upon arrival at St. Mary’s Hospital, we settled into our assigned labor room. With our focal point prominently displayed, we got down to the business of puffing and panting. While the breathing techniques we’d learned undoubtedly helped manage the discomfort of contractions, anticipating what all the effort would produce was the most effective distraction from the pain. The several hours spent in labor passed mostly in a blur, nature’s way of assuring propagation of the species.
Suddenly, when delivery was imminent, the immediate surroundings faded into the background. Seemingly from afar, I could hear the doctor and nurse calmly providing instructions, my husband tenderly offering encouragement, but my focus turned inward. Instead of an out of body experience, it was like an inner body experience, as though peering telescopically within; every fiber of my being intent on safely delivering a healthy baby.
After a brief period of Herculean pushing, our son made his highly anticipated debut. And in an instant, I went from being a person to being a parent. In that moment, the bond we had been forging for thirty-eight weeks was sealed for life. Nothing would ever be the same again. Part of me would dwell forever within the body of another.
Skin to skin, we regarded one another for the first time, face to face. Having accounted for all ten fingers and toes, I memorized every feature as he struggled to focus his gaze on my eyes. Never before had I experienced such an instantaneous, profound love.
As he nestled into my embrace, nuzzling my neck in a misplaced search for nourishment, I was struck by the sudden realization that I would do anything for this child. When the nurse gently removed him, to be taken for a thorough examination in the nursery, my arms immediately ached in his absence. Assurances that his father would be allowed to stay by his side was my only consolation until his return.
As I lay alone in the recovery room, peacefully contemplating the unfolding of the day’s events, my parents’ voices echoed. “Just wait ‘til you have children of your own. Then you’ll know what we mean.” Finally, I was beginning to understand what they’d been trying to tell me. Then, all of a sudden, there they were, Mom and Dad, standing in the doorway of the recovery room having driven from Beattyville, Kentucky to Athens, Georgia in record time.
Beaming and grinning from ear to ear, having stopped to catch a glimpse of their grandson on the way to see me, they rushed in, one on each side of the bed to embrace me. “Our baby had a baby!” Mom whispered excitedly. “How do you feel?” “Remember all those times you two told me that one day, when I became a parent I would understand? Well, now I get it. I understand what you were trying to tell me.” Hugging me through tears, they announced, “Just wait ‘til you become a grandparent!” If texting, this is where a dumbfounded face emoji would go.
Like generations of offspring, there were things my parents said that I swore would never pass my lips. Yet countless times, in the thirty plus years since that momentous day, I have opened my mouth only to have the enduring words of my parents come tumbling out in none other than my mother’s voice. “Just wait. One of these days, when you have children, you’ll understand.” The ensuing look of perplexity on my sons’ faces was uncannily familiar. In such moments, the potency of parental voices became abundantly clear.
Reflecting on the lifetimes my sons have known me as their mother, I find myself wondering about the voice of mine echoing in their memories. Does it whisper or shout? Sound gentle or harsh? Is it encouraging or critical, patient or annoyed, enlightening or confusing? Now more than ever, while anticipating the advent of my first grandchild in mere months, I ponder the question – what did I tell them?
What you hold in your hands is a resolute attempt to confirm, clarify, or correct what I told my sons through my actions and words. Although my child-rearing methods were chosen with the best of intentions, I am well aware of the potential for user error and misinterpretation. By examining my beliefs, experiences, knowledge, and practices regarding the nature of the parent-child relationship, I seek to ensure that the messages conveyed to my children were the ones intended.
If indeed my voice abides within my sons, may it be of a nurturing tone. Let it reveal the best of me and reflect the best of them. Let it serve to illuminate their path. Let it be worthy of repeating if perchance my grandchildren hear it someday. May the narrative it imparts invite appreciation and understanding, acting as a bridge between the generations, one constructed from the finite wisdom I possess, but imbued with my infinite love.
