Mothers

Thirty-eight years ago, my mother was a senior in High School.  She was not yet married.  She was not eighteen.  She was pregnant with me.  I was an accident, an oops, an unplanned consequence.  Yet, I was not a choice, I was a baby, I was her baby.  She wanted me, in spite of her mother's opposition. My mother was called to motherhood.  She wanted many  children.  Initially she wanted 12, then settled for 6, circumstances of life gave her 3.

I was born two months after my parents married, just over 30 weeks after I was conceived.  My delivery and post-natal care cost more than my father made in a year.  We didn't have insurance.

She never had the luxury to be able to stay home with her children.  While my parents were married, my mother worked nights in a factory and my father worked days in a department store to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads.  After my parents were divorced, it harder for them.

Both of my parents were on public assistance during my childhood at various times as the economy went up and down, when work wasn't available, or when full time work did not keep food on the table.  We lived in bad neighborhoods, we had old cars, we had clothing from thrift stores.

I always knew I was wanted, even when I did not like my mother and when my mother did not like me.  Even when we were both in too much of a hurry for me to grow up. She brought me into this world.  She supported me.  She encouraged me.

Thanks Mom.

My Children gave this plant to my wife 2 years ago for Mother's Day.

To be a Father

Nine years ago, my first son came into this world.  Nine years ago, I became a father.

It's a fascinating experience to watch a child grow.  A baby is so small.  His finger and toes were so delicate.  I am not a large man, but my hands seemed so impossibly large next him.

Every milestone is a wonder, learning to roll, learning to walk and talk.

It is a joy to watch him, even when it hurts, to see how he responds, to listen to him speak and ask questions, experiencing the world around him.

When he was two, he had a fascination with his baby brother's eyes.  I'd hear a blood curdling scream and watch a two-year-old run out of their bedroom exclaiming, "He's OK now."

Three years ago, I took my family to my Great-Grandfather's funeral.  My oldest son asked me, "Why are Grandpa's eyes sewn shut?"

These may not paint the best picture of my son, but they remind me that what a child see and does is not always the same as I see and do.

Being a father he been an overwhelming, wonderful, horrible, joyful, painful, life-changing experience.   I wouldn't give it up for anything.   I have a focus and a purpose.  Even when all is going wrong, the hug of a child can make it right.

Fatherhood has been one has been one of those gifts that continually reminds me that there is a God and that He loves me.