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| Opa & Oma Kooi |
"Wie wat bewaart, heeft wat"
(He who preserves something, has something)
(He who preserves something, has something)
I came across this saying in the foreword of a dusty old book, entitled "Oethoezermeerden - In beeld en blad"(Uithuizermeerden, in images and pages/writing.) The "kop" of Holland, my parent's hometown. It struck a cord with me. Preserving history, memories and stories, keep us connected. More than places, buildings or possessions ever can. Tucked into the back of this book I found a short account of "de Eendenkooi" in Uithuizermeerden. It was developed around 1650 in a natural fresh-water catchment area between the Midden-dike and the Hefswall, which provide defense from storm surges. The purpose of this "kooidobbe" (pond or basin) was to capture wild ducks in a "vogelkooi" (bird cage or "decoy") through a network of covered drifts flowing into the dobbe. Nearby lived the "kooiker", who worked this area. The reason why this bit of history has significance, is our family name: Kooi. An unfortunate surname if you are living in South Africa. For here the only association with this word is to mean: "bed or bunk". This earned me some strange nick-names at school, and brought about a tiresome stream of mocking, which followed me all the way through high school.
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| "Mtusane", front left |
It was interesting to find that in Xhosa, iKoyi means crib, and in the 1870's there where four Koyi brothers who lived near Lovedale (a missionary station), 3.2 km outside of Alice, the town nearest to Hogsback. Their surname has been traced back to the Dutch surname "Kooi". The most well-known of these brothers, William Koyi, worked at the Lovedale College as a missionary. He was given the nick-name "Mtusane" (the person who puts down anger, or the peacemaker).
We named our own property "Inesi", a Xhosa word for nest, now a "kooi" for the Gladwin birdies...
I was named after Oma Kooi, my paternal Grandmother, a staunch, hardworking woman who brought eleven offspring into the world over a period of thirteen years. (I used to wonder where children are kept, before a steady stream of long suffering woman had to bring them "into the world". And then grown-ups still add to the confusion by saying: "Your mother brought you into this world, she can take you out also.")
Martje, formidable moeder of one short of a dozen whelps, undauntedly raised her brood with a stiff back and calloused hands. One of her sons died as a soldier during WWII, but there was simply no time to mourn him. She stares at me from an old print, with her lips pursed and head drawn in, forming a double chin over a starched white collar. Short in stature, but intimidating with her level gaze from behind dark-rimmed spectacles, even in a frozen moment captured on film. She was said to have been a "hard" woman, who did not endear herself to many. Looking back, I am beginning to understand why this may have been so. Wedded as a young maiden, from a family of humble means, she felt the sweet stirring of her first child. Followed by the next fourteen years of her married life, either pregnant, birthing and/or nursing. Then another thirty or more, clothing, feeding and trying to keep a household and family from unravelling at the seams. During this time, while the world was at war, families queued with coupons for food rations. I know very little of her husband, my grandfather. He was just never mentioned. Dressed in their Sunday best, he resembles an aged Laurel (from the Laurel & Hardy skits). Diminutive and a bit startled.
It was a life of survival, little rest and few or no luxuries. Emotions and pleasantries were probably also luxuries, in which she could not indulge. It used to "irk" me that I had to be burdened with her odd sounding name and surname, along with a legacy which sounded less than romantic to a gullable dreamer. Time has brought perspective, and I now wish that she were still alive, so that I could say to her: "Mijn hoed af Oma; you are a strong, courageous and amazing woman, and I carry your name proudly."
I followed the changes in my body with a growing sense of awe. I had never realised that a woman’s body was that "fearfully and wonderfully made". Never is one as intimately close to another human being as during the nine months when another life is growing inside you. I was blessed and fortunate to have a gentle pregnancy, with no complications and relatively little discomfort. This also surprised me. I had been told so many horror stories and read about all the negative symptoms, but very few people took the time to tell me what a special time it can be. God truly went to great lengths to show his care. Anxiety was stilled through knowing that He who calls all life into being, would help me to cross the finish line. It was (mostly) a joyful time of waiting.
I spent much time reading about how the little one developed, from embryo, to tadpole with a tail, to resembling an earthling at only 6 weeks. At this time, there are the beginnings of a heart, brain, eyes, ears and other vital organs. Tiny stumps appear where arms and legs will form. The umbilical cord starts developing, which would become the vital link between me and this little tadpole.
Initially a heavy tiredness set in. My body had to produce more blood to sustain the new life, and my breath became faster as the heart worked harder to keep up. I whiffed like a highly strung horse and rest was sweet.
I remember walking in the forest, breathing deeply thinking: each breath is keeping someone else alive. Just a few centimeters long, but with his/her own perfect life support system! At 8 weeks the heart and brain divide into their major parts, arms can bend at the elbow and web-like fingers start forming (remember "Man from Atlantis"?). Muscles develop and the “tail” disappears. At 10 weeks the baby has nearly all the body structures that an adult has, but is only about 6 cm long! At 12 weeks the foetus has delicate eyelids covering the eyes, and minute fingernails start growing. It can move the head and jaw. Reproductive organs are formed (is it pink or blue dear?)
I was still blissfully free of nausea and had few cravings apart from all things fresh and energy giving. I ate spoonfuls of blackstrap molasses - to the extent that I cannot even stomach the smell of the stuff now. I savored sparkling cold Appletizer at any time of day or night. Feeling strong and vital, I relished the extra care and kindness that people lavish on a pregnant woman.
At 14 weeks unique facial features shift into place and the little one is able to kick and suck his thumb. The “quickening” is a beautiful moment, a confirmation of thriving life and a precious way in which I could connect with the “stranger” in my womb. Also about this time a heart-beat could be discerned with a special monitor, fast and strong. At the end of week 20 there is good bone development and the babe starts doing headstands and somersaults and rapidly changes position at will. (This one continued doing this outside the womb - even does headstands in "church"). The little acrobat starts building up a lot of body fat, despite all the aerobics.
It was a strange sensation to have all these things happening inside me, without any input or measure of control on my part. I was the vessel – intricately connected and needed, but with the controls in Someone else’s hands. At 24 weeks the foetus is about the size of a big banana and still getting fatter. There is rapid eye movement, even though the eyeball is still covered. Taste buds form, and now the smorgasboard of the mother’s diet is no longer lost on baby. A cocktail of flavours can be picked up from the amniotic fluid and preferences can be cultivated even from this early stage. (Which may explain why he so loves Appletizer!) Lungs are developed – but it is still the mother’s oxygen that sustains his body.
I ate for two, breathed for two, did everything for two – my body totally focused on the well-being of this being. I started feeling small contractions, like someone was gently squeezing and pulling my insides. Even though it was painless, it was a bit alarming. A wise mother of four explained with a knowing smile that my body was merely “practicing” for the real event. An internal workout without a bead of sweat.
And then, at 28 weeks there is magic... Something inside the womb, separates or slits the gossamer covering over the eyes into two distinct eye-lids. No research up to date has been able to determine how this actually happens... Hair starts growing. The lungs are learning to make surfactant – which will help the lungs to breathe air. The hormones Progesterone and Relaxin are released in the woman’s body, causing softening of the joint cartilage, which would eventually allow baby to pass through the rigid pelvis during birth. One can rest assured that your bones are relaxed, even if you are not. At about 31 weeks, the pupils can dilate in response to the soft pinkish light that filters into the womb. (Is this where the expression “seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses” comes from...?) The central nervous system is developed well enough for a baby to survive outside the womb. The covering of hair all over the baby’s body called lanugo begins to fall out. Little monkey starts getting ready for his exit into the wide, wild world.
Between 33 and 36 weeks the skin is smoothed out and the baby has developed a firm grip and a mean kick! This can be fun to watch, but these unexpected sharp kicks to the ribs do not always result in gentle feelings toward your unborn charge.
The final weeks arrived. This is a humbling time. Laughing, sneezing or coughing add to the constant pressure on the bladder, at times with embarrassing results... I waddled like Jemima. Slept half sitting up, Rennies within easy grasp. Shortness of breath became a constant companion, a huffing ducky on antacids. Hormone production is at a peak at this point, preparing the body for the grand finale. My hair and skin glowed, but some side effects were not all that charming... Mood swings became a bit erratic, it was tears or talons with not much in between.
The little one made a 180 degree turn, good to go, but I was not. Many memories of those final weeks of this first pregnancy have become a bit blurred, but I do recall feeling exited, scared, sad, elated, confused and peaceful within the span of a few minutes! I was not that huge, and the rest of my body had lost weight while my tummy grew round and taught. At this stage I was still more comfortable with the little one safe in the womb , than the idea of him outside of it. The unknown, unfamiliar (scary) territory of motherhood was suddenly so real and near.
A soft circle of mothers and dancing sisters had formed around me through these months. Now as the time grew near, they blessed me with a special little ceremony. I was led down a path of candles into the space where we met to dance and "unburden" each week. A specially made candle in amber and red hues, was passed from one mother to the next - each taking a turn to give me a heartfelt message or (much needed) advice. I savour this memory and their care.
At the last check-up, (a few days after the ETD had come and gone) we had "the suitcase" packed and ready in the car, just in case... There was a bed available and our baby was said to be low on juice (amniotic fluid). I walked into a dimly lit labour ward, dressed in my favourite velvets, which had to be exchanged for a stiff, scratchy hospital gown. I wondered how many other woman had given birth wearing that selfsame ridiculous garment. The moment of truth had arrived. An induction was performed. A smiling midwife reassured me that we would very soon be parents. But my body and this little person had other plans. They had grown quite fond of each other and neither was ready to give the other up just yet.
After a seemingly endless night, another induction and much groaning, the director's clapperboard finally came down, and the show was about to begin. A strong contraction is a pain that tears and rips and bites, but it is also proof that the body is doing what it is expected to do. My husband held my hand, (or more likely - I had his in a vice-like grip). In the other hand I held a white stone, given to me by a dear friend. Even though the stone of itself held no power, it made me feel connected to her and the multitude of mothers who had experienced the "throes of labour" before me. At some point I lost track of what was going on around me, caught in the ebb and flow of contractions.
(When God told Eve that she would have severe pain in childbirth it was not only a curse. It was a consequence of sin. The same Hebrew word for pain namely “toil” is used when God tells Adam that he will eat – (earn his living) by the sweat of his brow. When God lets us go through pain (toil), he also gives us the ability to cope with it. I would not say it is wrong to receive artificial relief from pain during childbirth, only that this practice rather “robs” women of the total passionate experience of giving birth. Through the "passion" of pain, we are moved to “compassion”. It is interesting that the Greek root for the word “passion” is “pathos”, meaning “that which befalls one – a suffering”! Not quite the fickle passion that love stories feed on.)
Fourteen and a half hours after the first induction, the little guy who made me a mother slipped into the world, among cries and tears of relief and joy from my husband, the midwife and I. Giving birth was harder, more messy and more beautiful than I imagined. No book or sage advice can truly prepare you for it. Synonyms for labour are throes, travail, toil - which are all true descriptions, but there are no words to explain the rapture with which a child is passed into the world. Or to describe the beautiful presence of God, who formed that new life so tenderly. It felt as if heaven itself had opened when our son was placed in my arms for the first time.
My husband and I stared and stared at the perfection of the life that had grown so mysteriously inside me for all those months. Now in warm and amazing detail before our eyes. The list of names that we had so carefully chosen, flashed through my mind. Not one fitted. We chose not to know whether it was a boy or a girl, and the thrill of surprise and delight was worth the mystery of the months before. I looked up at my husband and said: “He looks like a Luke”.
And Luke he is. Bold, brave, bright, intense, sensitive and loving. When I sent an early photo of him to my family, smiling with eyes a-sparkling, my sister commented: “Oh boy, here comes personality with a capital “P”. How right she was!
After the surreal hospital experience, we stepped out into an August sun, softened by breezes blowing off the coast. Smiling from ear to ear and apprehensive. We were parents. We turned onto the familiar road between East London and our misty mountains. It was the beginning of an entirely uncharted journey. The sturdy little car seat stayed empty. I held our two day old son close but tenderly, as if he were a swaddled light-bulb. He seemed so fragile.
At home, an antique wicker crib, all trimmed and tailored, was waiting. In the months prior to his birth, I often just stood and looked at the empty crib, trying to imagine what the small person would be like who would soon be sleeping there. Now that the space was filled, I could still not stop staring. Somehow, his features seemed familiar. There was something in his vulnerability, which reminded me of my Father in his last days, with the marks of life on his face, but as fragile and dependent as an infant. I was amazed by our son's presence in our home. But the overwhelming, heart rendering love that mothers speak of, only came later. After two days and nights of parental bliss, the “toil” and after-pain of childbirth, broken sleep and sudden withdrawal of all those surging hormones, I suddenly felt completely "flat".
It was as if my body could not quite catch up and relate the infant in my arms to the one it had so recently surrendered. I felt uncertain in my new role, and fumbled through endless nappy changes and awkward, painful feeding times. Much of those first few weeks have melted into a blur. I recall that it was hard and confusing and wonderful and scary and so unbelievably exhausting. But mercifully I do not remember to what extent. My husband and I were both trying to find our feet as parents, amazed but also more than a little scared of the new ruler of our household. Trying to understand his needs and demands, and wondering how we would ever find our way back to something that represented normality.
Feeding times where anxious. I never knew if he was getting enough, or whether I was doing it the right way. Once in a while, I felt a hint of the bliss that those serene images of nursing infants and restful mothers exude. But we did not get it right often enough, and soon it became obvious that our child was underfed and losing weight, at what seemed to me an alarming rate. I had visits and phone calls from well meaning mothers who put so much emphasis on the need to breast feed above all else, that I lost perspective, feeling tense and anxious at each feeding time. My heart was constricted with concern, and it robbed me from the continued joy of bonding, which I felt when I held him near for the first time.
It was an incredible comfort to have my husband at home during this time. He patiently absorbed my unpredictable moods, shared the anxiety, but tried to encourage wherever he could. Without him there I may have felt totally lost. The local doctor (who became a patient friend and confidant), paid house visits, gave advice and finally showed up like an angel at our doorstep with a tin of infant formula. But some of the "experienced" mothers continued stressing the absolute importance of breast feeding, and feelings of failure and inadequacy pushed to the surface once again.
At some point, while I was trying to force teaspoonfuls of milk into that small hungry mouth that only knew how to suckle, I made a decision. I filled a sterilised bottle with the amount of formula needed, and gingerly touched the little one’s mouth with it. His mouth opened wide and then eagerly and sweetly started suckling. Relief flowed through me and my arm relaxed against his tummy as he drained the bottle to the last drop. I lifted him up to rub out the “wind” and a stream of warm milk shot over my shoulder with surprising force. I stared at it with disbelief and horror. This process of “projectile vomiting” continued for what seemed like forever. But finally, a steady feeding pattern set in. Our gaunt little man gained weight, filled out, and his frayed parents could slowly try to regain their sanity.
How I missed having my mother nearby. My husband had very thoughtfully bought a thick volume on caring for infants through all the various phases of development. It became like a bible to us, and by the time Luke took his first steps, the book was starting to fall apart. But books can list maladies and remedies and endless "have to's" and "should not's", but they do nothing to comfort a new mother's doubt and sense of helplessness in the small dark hours. Mercifully, there were "hotlines" to three special young mothers and the untiring woman-doctor, who were always ready with a remedy or reassurance.
My husband was still the village baker, and I dreaded the nights he spent in the bakery next to our cabin. It was just a stone's throw away, but he could just as well have been on another planet. It was a hard night’s work. Mixing huge containers of dough, turning, shaping, while feeding and tending to the large hungry wood-fired oven. Just a few meters away, my world was tuned to a tiny person’s unpredictable rhythm and demands.
Luke slept like he lives - with abandon. Changing position so many times, it would make you dizzy if you could stay awake long enough to witness it all. On bake-nights I would often tuck him into the bed with me, with a pillow in between us to prevent head-banging and drop-kicks to my spine or stomach. But somehow, mercifully, we both got some degree of erratic sleep. I would wake up to another morning, fresh with new mercies and wrapped in the aromas of baking. Gaping once again at the perfection of the small being sharing my bed space. I was falling in love, slowly but surely. Defenseless against the tender, fierce and protective feelings stirring in me.
Our firstborn challenged and charmed, tested and disarmed me in so many ways. And he still does. From very small, he's had a bubbly sense of fun, full of sparkles and intensity. I had to become quite inventive to keep him content for long enough so that I could make a return trip to the bathroom without a wail of protest from the boss for being left alone. I cut colourful pictures from our Country Life magazines and stuck them all over the inside of his cot, with strings of shiny beads and bright bits of fabric strung over his head. Teddies and conventional baby toys would amuse him but for a while. Like a crow or a magpie he delighted in anything shiny. I draped bits of my dancing day's bling over the top of his stroller, alternated droopy earring mobiles, and spent more time changing his "decor" than his diapers.
My husband and I took turns at keeping him amused. At around eight in the morning, I would often glance at the clock thinking: "How will I ever get through this day?" He loved being danced with, but not to the gentle soothing sounds of classical music. This little guy liked it fast, vibey – something with a good beat to it. At times it was truly fun, but his appetite for merry-making was always larger than my energy supply.
At a birthday celebration with friends, an older man in the company looked over at the three of us and remarked: “How on earth did two such soft spoken people manage to produce such a vociferous child?” Luke was being his bouncy, charming, noisy and giggly self. Only truly content once everyone’s eyes were on him. Reaching for each bite of cake that I aimed at my mouth, but plopped on his head or on my already stained dress instead. Or as the proverbial "crumbs under the table" for the well-fed pup.
We managed to socialise to a certain extent, although it always took meticulous planning and ferrying of an assortment of extra “luggage”. Among the “in-crowd” I felt torn in two. My baby always had the stronger pull, and I would watch the rest jibing and being cool from a distance. A bit envious, but at the same time becoming aware of the affectedness and lack of depth in it all. I could not, and often did not want to fit in anymore. How could I? Small babies are often not “cool”. They drool - a lot. They can be adorable one moment and then produce a stream of sour vomit over you the next. Sweet- and new smelling, only to turn into a little stink-bomb that no-one except the parents can tolerate to be near to. Consider a typical new mother – puffy-eyed and cooing, smelling like baby products and milk (often sour). With phrases like: “He is a bit windy today” or “don't you love it when he does that” etc, the highlights of her stimulating conversation. Alien language and territory to non-parents and - definitely not cool.
We found a safe place among two other couples with small babies and children. They got it. They understood the happy, messy chaos that sticks to young families like fridge magnets. Which having left marks that won't come off, simply become part of the appliance.
I was growing into motherhood. Since the pregnancy had been relatively smooth and the birth natural and without complications, I thought that motherhood would just “happen”. But it was just so much harder and sweeter than I imagined. And much more tiring. My emotions were still rather erratic and I could swing between feeling blissful to murderous, in an alarmingly short time. But slowly my fingers grew nimble, my arms grew stronger and my heart gained confidence. I started feeling more comfortable in the “new skin” and the altered body, which was still mine, but seemed to be at another’s beck and call. I started trusting my intuition rather than books and well-meaning advice. Cherished more and more the unfolding character of the little clown who had entered our lives so tangibly and noisily.
We have always been amazed at the way he could command people’s attention, draw them out. Very few were immune to his charms. From his stroller, those violet eyes, so full of "joy de vivre" would search a room until they locked with another’s, and then the game would begin. Later when he could crawl and then toddle, he would simply latch onto perfect strangers, regardless of race or age, and start babbling away as if they were much loved and long standing friends - and be welcomed by just about everyone. He still has a special way of engaging people, just the separation is now slightly less charming.
We were a happy three-some, or so it seemed. When Luke was six months old, we came to deeply challenging time in our marriage. My relationship with God was occasional, and even though I called out for help, it was without conviction. But Jesus loved us so long before we loved Him, and this Love gave me the strength to get up out of my self-pity, and make the right choice. It was a time of extremes. Some days were good, and hope would flare up bright, but then we would fall back into old patterns and doubts. We tried not to let it show or influence our precious child, who was a constant reminder of what was good and beautiful between us.
The sweet smell of his blond head against my face gave me hope, his eyes so full of life’s early wonder. We were a family, and this gave me reason to trust that things could and would be “whole” again.
We celebrated Luke's first birthday, a mild sunshiny day under a cloudless sky. I was about to find myself upside down at the tippy-top of yet another roller-coaster.
And the only way out was all the way down...
Martje, formidable moeder of one short of a dozen whelps, undauntedly raised her brood with a stiff back and calloused hands. One of her sons died as a soldier during WWII, but there was simply no time to mourn him. She stares at me from an old print, with her lips pursed and head drawn in, forming a double chin over a starched white collar. Short in stature, but intimidating with her level gaze from behind dark-rimmed spectacles, even in a frozen moment captured on film. She was said to have been a "hard" woman, who did not endear herself to many. Looking back, I am beginning to understand why this may have been so. Wedded as a young maiden, from a family of humble means, she felt the sweet stirring of her first child. Followed by the next fourteen years of her married life, either pregnant, birthing and/or nursing. Then another thirty or more, clothing, feeding and trying to keep a household and family from unravelling at the seams. During this time, while the world was at war, families queued with coupons for food rations. I know very little of her husband, my grandfather. He was just never mentioned. Dressed in their Sunday best, he resembles an aged Laurel (from the Laurel & Hardy skits). Diminutive and a bit startled.
It was a life of survival, little rest and few or no luxuries. Emotions and pleasantries were probably also luxuries, in which she could not indulge. It used to "irk" me that I had to be burdened with her odd sounding name and surname, along with a legacy which sounded less than romantic to a gullable dreamer. Time has brought perspective, and I now wish that she were still alive, so that I could say to her: "Mijn hoed af Oma; you are a strong, courageous and amazing woman, and I carry your name proudly."
BECOMING A MOTHER
Now the LORD was gracious to Sarah as He had said, and the LORD did for Sarah what He had promised. (Gen. 21:1)
Among all the floury activity in the new bakery and digging down our tap roots, I sheltered a secret. Which up to that time, was all my own. I had started noticing changes in my body, apart from the normal absence of a monthly cycle (which had often been haphazard). It was more a tingle, an awareness of something different. A few weeks after my 42nd birthday, and two days before Christmas, I returned from the village with an amazing Christmas present. It was confirmed - I was "with child". Or rather, child was with me. It was very unexpected, although not at all unwelcome. My husband was over the moon, and I shifted between feeling giddy (literally) and apprehensive, to feeling a deep thankfulness for being chosen to become an "older" mother. I had uncertainties about how my body and especially the "patched" spine would cope. But one by one - as my waist expanded, the doubts shrank.
A part of me had always imagined that I would not be able to conceive. Many things domestic and feminine, which seemed to come so naturally to other woman, seemed to evade me. I was seen to be a “tomboy” as a child, and I just assumed that tomboys grew up into something less or different than other woman. What a lie that was. When I finally became comfortable with my own “womanhood”, many layers of deception fell off, and I discovered that I was indeed made exactly the way I was intended to be. Nothing lacking, accepted and lovely in my own unique way. The pregnancy was just another wonderful way in which God confirmed this. I had conceived as surprisingly easily as anyone could wish for, and the little one grew steadily and sweetly under my heart.
Now the LORD was gracious to Sarah as He had said, and the LORD did for Sarah what He had promised. (Gen. 21:1)
Among all the floury activity in the new bakery and digging down our tap roots, I sheltered a secret. Which up to that time, was all my own. I had started noticing changes in my body, apart from the normal absence of a monthly cycle (which had often been haphazard). It was more a tingle, an awareness of something different. A few weeks after my 42nd birthday, and two days before Christmas, I returned from the village with an amazing Christmas present. It was confirmed - I was "with child". Or rather, child was with me. It was very unexpected, although not at all unwelcome. My husband was over the moon, and I shifted between feeling giddy (literally) and apprehensive, to feeling a deep thankfulness for being chosen to become an "older" mother. I had uncertainties about how my body and especially the "patched" spine would cope. But one by one - as my waist expanded, the doubts shrank.
A part of me had always imagined that I would not be able to conceive. Many things domestic and feminine, which seemed to come so naturally to other woman, seemed to evade me. I was seen to be a “tomboy” as a child, and I just assumed that tomboys grew up into something less or different than other woman. What a lie that was. When I finally became comfortable with my own “womanhood”, many layers of deception fell off, and I discovered that I was indeed made exactly the way I was intended to be. Nothing lacking, accepted and lovely in my own unique way. The pregnancy was just another wonderful way in which God confirmed this. I had conceived as surprisingly easily as anyone could wish for, and the little one grew steadily and sweetly under my heart.
I followed the changes in my body with a growing sense of awe. I had never realised that a woman’s body was that "fearfully and wonderfully made". Never is one as intimately close to another human being as during the nine months when another life is growing inside you. I was blessed and fortunate to have a gentle pregnancy, with no complications and relatively little discomfort. This also surprised me. I had been told so many horror stories and read about all the negative symptoms, but very few people took the time to tell me what a special time it can be. God truly went to great lengths to show his care. Anxiety was stilled through knowing that He who calls all life into being, would help me to cross the finish line. It was (mostly) a joyful time of waiting.
I spent much time reading about how the little one developed, from embryo, to tadpole with a tail, to resembling an earthling at only 6 weeks. At this time, there are the beginnings of a heart, brain, eyes, ears and other vital organs. Tiny stumps appear where arms and legs will form. The umbilical cord starts developing, which would become the vital link between me and this little tadpole.
Initially a heavy tiredness set in. My body had to produce more blood to sustain the new life, and my breath became faster as the heart worked harder to keep up. I whiffed like a highly strung horse and rest was sweet.
I remember walking in the forest, breathing deeply thinking: each breath is keeping someone else alive. Just a few centimeters long, but with his/her own perfect life support system! At 8 weeks the heart and brain divide into their major parts, arms can bend at the elbow and web-like fingers start forming (remember "Man from Atlantis"?). Muscles develop and the “tail” disappears. At 10 weeks the baby has nearly all the body structures that an adult has, but is only about 6 cm long! At 12 weeks the foetus has delicate eyelids covering the eyes, and minute fingernails start growing. It can move the head and jaw. Reproductive organs are formed (is it pink or blue dear?)
I was still blissfully free of nausea and had few cravings apart from all things fresh and energy giving. I ate spoonfuls of blackstrap molasses - to the extent that I cannot even stomach the smell of the stuff now. I savored sparkling cold Appletizer at any time of day or night. Feeling strong and vital, I relished the extra care and kindness that people lavish on a pregnant woman.
It was a strange sensation to have all these things happening inside me, without any input or measure of control on my part. I was the vessel – intricately connected and needed, but with the controls in Someone else’s hands. At 24 weeks the foetus is about the size of a big banana and still getting fatter. There is rapid eye movement, even though the eyeball is still covered. Taste buds form, and now the smorgasboard of the mother’s diet is no longer lost on baby. A cocktail of flavours can be picked up from the amniotic fluid and preferences can be cultivated even from this early stage. (Which may explain why he so loves Appletizer!) Lungs are developed – but it is still the mother’s oxygen that sustains his body.
I ate for two, breathed for two, did everything for two – my body totally focused on the well-being of this being. I started feeling small contractions, like someone was gently squeezing and pulling my insides. Even though it was painless, it was a bit alarming. A wise mother of four explained with a knowing smile that my body was merely “practicing” for the real event. An internal workout without a bead of sweat.
And then, at 28 weeks there is magic... Something inside the womb, separates or slits the gossamer covering over the eyes into two distinct eye-lids. No research up to date has been able to determine how this actually happens... Hair starts growing. The lungs are learning to make surfactant – which will help the lungs to breathe air. The hormones Progesterone and Relaxin are released in the woman’s body, causing softening of the joint cartilage, which would eventually allow baby to pass through the rigid pelvis during birth. One can rest assured that your bones are relaxed, even if you are not. At about 31 weeks, the pupils can dilate in response to the soft pinkish light that filters into the womb. (Is this where the expression “seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses” comes from...?) The central nervous system is developed well enough for a baby to survive outside the womb. The covering of hair all over the baby’s body called lanugo begins to fall out. Little monkey starts getting ready for his exit into the wide, wild world.
Between 33 and 36 weeks the skin is smoothed out and the baby has developed a firm grip and a mean kick! This can be fun to watch, but these unexpected sharp kicks to the ribs do not always result in gentle feelings toward your unborn charge.
The final weeks arrived. This is a humbling time. Laughing, sneezing or coughing add to the constant pressure on the bladder, at times with embarrassing results... I waddled like Jemima. Slept half sitting up, Rennies within easy grasp. Shortness of breath became a constant companion, a huffing ducky on antacids. Hormone production is at a peak at this point, preparing the body for the grand finale. My hair and skin glowed, but some side effects were not all that charming... Mood swings became a bit erratic, it was tears or talons with not much in between.
The little one made a 180 degree turn, good to go, but I was not. Many memories of those final weeks of this first pregnancy have become a bit blurred, but I do recall feeling exited, scared, sad, elated, confused and peaceful within the span of a few minutes! I was not that huge, and the rest of my body had lost weight while my tummy grew round and taught. At this stage I was still more comfortable with the little one safe in the womb , than the idea of him outside of it. The unknown, unfamiliar (scary) territory of motherhood was suddenly so real and near.
A soft circle of mothers and dancing sisters had formed around me through these months. Now as the time grew near, they blessed me with a special little ceremony. I was led down a path of candles into the space where we met to dance and "unburden" each week. A specially made candle in amber and red hues, was passed from one mother to the next - each taking a turn to give me a heartfelt message or (much needed) advice. I savour this memory and their care.
At the last check-up, (a few days after the ETD had come and gone) we had "the suitcase" packed and ready in the car, just in case... There was a bed available and our baby was said to be low on juice (amniotic fluid). I walked into a dimly lit labour ward, dressed in my favourite velvets, which had to be exchanged for a stiff, scratchy hospital gown. I wondered how many other woman had given birth wearing that selfsame ridiculous garment. The moment of truth had arrived. An induction was performed. A smiling midwife reassured me that we would very soon be parents. But my body and this little person had other plans. They had grown quite fond of each other and neither was ready to give the other up just yet.
After a seemingly endless night, another induction and much groaning, the director's clapperboard finally came down, and the show was about to begin. A strong contraction is a pain that tears and rips and bites, but it is also proof that the body is doing what it is expected to do. My husband held my hand, (or more likely - I had his in a vice-like grip). In the other hand I held a white stone, given to me by a dear friend. Even though the stone of itself held no power, it made me feel connected to her and the multitude of mothers who had experienced the "throes of labour" before me. At some point I lost track of what was going on around me, caught in the ebb and flow of contractions.
(When God told Eve that she would have severe pain in childbirth it was not only a curse. It was a consequence of sin. The same Hebrew word for pain namely “toil” is used when God tells Adam that he will eat – (earn his living) by the sweat of his brow. When God lets us go through pain (toil), he also gives us the ability to cope with it. I would not say it is wrong to receive artificial relief from pain during childbirth, only that this practice rather “robs” women of the total passionate experience of giving birth. Through the "passion" of pain, we are moved to “compassion”. It is interesting that the Greek root for the word “passion” is “pathos”, meaning “that which befalls one – a suffering”! Not quite the fickle passion that love stories feed on.)
Fourteen and a half hours after the first induction, the little guy who made me a mother slipped into the world, among cries and tears of relief and joy from my husband, the midwife and I. Giving birth was harder, more messy and more beautiful than I imagined. No book or sage advice can truly prepare you for it. Synonyms for labour are throes, travail, toil - which are all true descriptions, but there are no words to explain the rapture with which a child is passed into the world. Or to describe the beautiful presence of God, who formed that new life so tenderly. It felt as if heaven itself had opened when our son was placed in my arms for the first time.
My husband and I stared and stared at the perfection of the life that had grown so mysteriously inside me for all those months. Now in warm and amazing detail before our eyes. The list of names that we had so carefully chosen, flashed through my mind. Not one fitted. We chose not to know whether it was a boy or a girl, and the thrill of surprise and delight was worth the mystery of the months before. I looked up at my husband and said: “He looks like a Luke”.
And Luke he is. Bold, brave, bright, intense, sensitive and loving. When I sent an early photo of him to my family, smiling with eyes a-sparkling, my sister commented: “Oh boy, here comes personality with a capital “P”. How right she was!
At home, an antique wicker crib, all trimmed and tailored, was waiting. In the months prior to his birth, I often just stood and looked at the empty crib, trying to imagine what the small person would be like who would soon be sleeping there. Now that the space was filled, I could still not stop staring. Somehow, his features seemed familiar. There was something in his vulnerability, which reminded me of my Father in his last days, with the marks of life on his face, but as fragile and dependent as an infant. I was amazed by our son's presence in our home. But the overwhelming, heart rendering love that mothers speak of, only came later. After two days and nights of parental bliss, the “toil” and after-pain of childbirth, broken sleep and sudden withdrawal of all those surging hormones, I suddenly felt completely "flat".
It was as if my body could not quite catch up and relate the infant in my arms to the one it had so recently surrendered. I felt uncertain in my new role, and fumbled through endless nappy changes and awkward, painful feeding times. Much of those first few weeks have melted into a blur. I recall that it was hard and confusing and wonderful and scary and so unbelievably exhausting. But mercifully I do not remember to what extent. My husband and I were both trying to find our feet as parents, amazed but also more than a little scared of the new ruler of our household. Trying to understand his needs and demands, and wondering how we would ever find our way back to something that represented normality.
Feeding times where anxious. I never knew if he was getting enough, or whether I was doing it the right way. Once in a while, I felt a hint of the bliss that those serene images of nursing infants and restful mothers exude. But we did not get it right often enough, and soon it became obvious that our child was underfed and losing weight, at what seemed to me an alarming rate. I had visits and phone calls from well meaning mothers who put so much emphasis on the need to breast feed above all else, that I lost perspective, feeling tense and anxious at each feeding time. My heart was constricted with concern, and it robbed me from the continued joy of bonding, which I felt when I held him near for the first time.
It was an incredible comfort to have my husband at home during this time. He patiently absorbed my unpredictable moods, shared the anxiety, but tried to encourage wherever he could. Without him there I may have felt totally lost. The local doctor (who became a patient friend and confidant), paid house visits, gave advice and finally showed up like an angel at our doorstep with a tin of infant formula. But some of the "experienced" mothers continued stressing the absolute importance of breast feeding, and feelings of failure and inadequacy pushed to the surface once again.
At some point, while I was trying to force teaspoonfuls of milk into that small hungry mouth that only knew how to suckle, I made a decision. I filled a sterilised bottle with the amount of formula needed, and gingerly touched the little one’s mouth with it. His mouth opened wide and then eagerly and sweetly started suckling. Relief flowed through me and my arm relaxed against his tummy as he drained the bottle to the last drop. I lifted him up to rub out the “wind” and a stream of warm milk shot over my shoulder with surprising force. I stared at it with disbelief and horror. This process of “projectile vomiting” continued for what seemed like forever. But finally, a steady feeding pattern set in. Our gaunt little man gained weight, filled out, and his frayed parents could slowly try to regain their sanity.
How I missed having my mother nearby. My husband had very thoughtfully bought a thick volume on caring for infants through all the various phases of development. It became like a bible to us, and by the time Luke took his first steps, the book was starting to fall apart. But books can list maladies and remedies and endless "have to's" and "should not's", but they do nothing to comfort a new mother's doubt and sense of helplessness in the small dark hours. Mercifully, there were "hotlines" to three special young mothers and the untiring woman-doctor, who were always ready with a remedy or reassurance.
My husband was still the village baker, and I dreaded the nights he spent in the bakery next to our cabin. It was just a stone's throw away, but he could just as well have been on another planet. It was a hard night’s work. Mixing huge containers of dough, turning, shaping, while feeding and tending to the large hungry wood-fired oven. Just a few meters away, my world was tuned to a tiny person’s unpredictable rhythm and demands.
Luke slept like he lives - with abandon. Changing position so many times, it would make you dizzy if you could stay awake long enough to witness it all. On bake-nights I would often tuck him into the bed with me, with a pillow in between us to prevent head-banging and drop-kicks to my spine or stomach. But somehow, mercifully, we both got some degree of erratic sleep. I would wake up to another morning, fresh with new mercies and wrapped in the aromas of baking. Gaping once again at the perfection of the small being sharing my bed space. I was falling in love, slowly but surely. Defenseless against the tender, fierce and protective feelings stirring in me.
Our firstborn challenged and charmed, tested and disarmed me in so many ways. And he still does. From very small, he's had a bubbly sense of fun, full of sparkles and intensity. I had to become quite inventive to keep him content for long enough so that I could make a return trip to the bathroom without a wail of protest from the boss for being left alone. I cut colourful pictures from our Country Life magazines and stuck them all over the inside of his cot, with strings of shiny beads and bright bits of fabric strung over his head. Teddies and conventional baby toys would amuse him but for a while. Like a crow or a magpie he delighted in anything shiny. I draped bits of my dancing day's bling over the top of his stroller, alternated droopy earring mobiles, and spent more time changing his "decor" than his diapers.
My husband and I took turns at keeping him amused. At around eight in the morning, I would often glance at the clock thinking: "How will I ever get through this day?" He loved being danced with, but not to the gentle soothing sounds of classical music. This little guy liked it fast, vibey – something with a good beat to it. At times it was truly fun, but his appetite for merry-making was always larger than my energy supply.
At a birthday celebration with friends, an older man in the company looked over at the three of us and remarked: “How on earth did two such soft spoken people manage to produce such a vociferous child?” Luke was being his bouncy, charming, noisy and giggly self. Only truly content once everyone’s eyes were on him. Reaching for each bite of cake that I aimed at my mouth, but plopped on his head or on my already stained dress instead. Or as the proverbial "crumbs under the table" for the well-fed pup.
We managed to socialise to a certain extent, although it always took meticulous planning and ferrying of an assortment of extra “luggage”. Among the “in-crowd” I felt torn in two. My baby always had the stronger pull, and I would watch the rest jibing and being cool from a distance. A bit envious, but at the same time becoming aware of the affectedness and lack of depth in it all. I could not, and often did not want to fit in anymore. How could I? Small babies are often not “cool”. They drool - a lot. They can be adorable one moment and then produce a stream of sour vomit over you the next. Sweet- and new smelling, only to turn into a little stink-bomb that no-one except the parents can tolerate to be near to. Consider a typical new mother – puffy-eyed and cooing, smelling like baby products and milk (often sour). With phrases like: “He is a bit windy today” or “don't you love it when he does that” etc, the highlights of her stimulating conversation. Alien language and territory to non-parents and - definitely not cool.
We found a safe place among two other couples with small babies and children. They got it. They understood the happy, messy chaos that sticks to young families like fridge magnets. Which having left marks that won't come off, simply become part of the appliance.
I was growing into motherhood. Since the pregnancy had been relatively smooth and the birth natural and without complications, I thought that motherhood would just “happen”. But it was just so much harder and sweeter than I imagined. And much more tiring. My emotions were still rather erratic and I could swing between feeling blissful to murderous, in an alarmingly short time. But slowly my fingers grew nimble, my arms grew stronger and my heart gained confidence. I started feeling more comfortable in the “new skin” and the altered body, which was still mine, but seemed to be at another’s beck and call. I started trusting my intuition rather than books and well-meaning advice. Cherished more and more the unfolding character of the little clown who had entered our lives so tangibly and noisily.
We have always been amazed at the way he could command people’s attention, draw them out. Very few were immune to his charms. From his stroller, those violet eyes, so full of "joy de vivre" would search a room until they locked with another’s, and then the game would begin. Later when he could crawl and then toddle, he would simply latch onto perfect strangers, regardless of race or age, and start babbling away as if they were much loved and long standing friends - and be welcomed by just about everyone. He still has a special way of engaging people, just the separation is now slightly less charming.
We were a happy three-some, or so it seemed. When Luke was six months old, we came to deeply challenging time in our marriage. My relationship with God was occasional, and even though I called out for help, it was without conviction. But Jesus loved us so long before we loved Him, and this Love gave me the strength to get up out of my self-pity, and make the right choice. It was a time of extremes. Some days were good, and hope would flare up bright, but then we would fall back into old patterns and doubts. We tried not to let it show or influence our precious child, who was a constant reminder of what was good and beautiful between us.
We celebrated Luke's first birthday, a mild sunshiny day under a cloudless sky. I was about to find myself upside down at the tippy-top of yet another roller-coaster.
And the only way out was all the way down...
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