On Mother's Day

Christine, William
and Aidan

She never mentioned children. Not when we were dating. Not after we were married. She liked to travel. One year we embarked on a pilgrimage to the Vatican for Christmas. We had gone to Paris a couple of times. We rode horses in Hyde Park in London. A local guide told us what to do if we run into the Queen on horseback. Initially you refer to her as "Your Majesty." Afterwards you can call her "Mum." On our honeymoon we spent weeks wandering the Ring of Kerry in Ireland on large warm blood horses. She knew about babies having sat for three boys, one a newborn, everyday one summer for two dollars an hour when she was eleven.

"The baby used to cry when I left him with his mother," she recalled.

Someone invited their family to our wedding. The father took a picture of us with the now three grown men then announced,

"Ok, now one with just Christine."

Imagine that. Some jerk was at a wedding trying to shoo the groom away from his bride. Well, what do you expect from people who let their newborn bond with a babysitter.

One time a friend handed Christine her infant son. She returned him a short time later, whispering to me,

"He smelled like sour milk."

I was a godparent so I had a connection to my best friend's middle child. I liked kids. They laughed a lot and played fun games. My wife always seemed less interested in the world of kids. Admittedly, it wasn't a big concern for me. We never had a giant conversation about "how we feel about children." We were the adults who grew annoyed by your misbehaving brats running around the restaurant. When we went out to dinner, Christine would survey the space to ensure we were seated furthest from a table with any children. Maybe I'm more tolerant now, but it seems that years ago parents let their little special snowflakes run between tables in restaurants after they scoffed down their chicken nuggets. Once a kid in a local pizzeria was scurrying about with a laser pointer in his hand which he shined in patron's faces. We left before our food arrived. We bought a house in a rural town and fixed it up all while educating ourselves into expert do it yourselfers. One day Christine said,

"Now that we have a house with all these rooms we should fill them up with, you know, people."

"You mean babies?" I asked.

"Yeah, what did you think?"

From the sound of it I thought she wanted us to open up our house to the homeless. That was the first time she had ever mentioned children, albeit obscurely. A routine visit to the gynecologist revealed a medical condition that would make it difficult for her to conceive. Her doctor told her,

"You won't be able to have children without medical intervention."

When she told me it was one of the two times in my life I saw my wife cry. When I came home from work, she met me at the door to tell me that the gnocchi I liked so much was sold out at our local pasta shop.

"I went all the way up there, and they didn't have any gnocchi," she explained in between sobs.

"What's the matter Christine?" I asked.

"They were all out! Now, we'll never have any gnocchi."

Eventually she told me what her doctor said.

"Can I have a turn at bat?" I asked.

Before we were going to cash in our secret desires to start a family, I wanted to at least try to impregnate my wife. We had friends who had difficulties conceiving. I read that some women are fertile for as little as two hours a month. Conception is a numbers game. The more you do it, the more likely you are to get pregnant. I believed in the "Three and Thirty Rule" for procreation, that is, three times a day for thirty days. After the best month of my life, Christine was pregnant. Her Yale doctor remarked,

"What do we know?"

Christine was a happy pregnant woman. Pregnancy ramps up the human body to help ensure the survival of the species. The first birth went off without a hitch. Six weeks later to correct that medical condition, they wanted to take one of Christine's ovaries. That's the state of medical expertise in our society. When a body part is malfunctioning or annoying you then have it nixed. They used to perform hysterectomies on women after menopause when their childbearing years were behind them to prevent "hysteria," then they discovered that there is a correlation between removing a woman's uterus and breast cancer. So not only do women get to grow a mustache after a hysterectomy, they get the big C too. Today tonsils and adenoids are all left in place as if nature or God screwed up and gave us all a body part that needs to be extracted by a surgeon at some time in our life. Not to sound like a Madonna, Christine said,

"I'm telling my doctor I'm keeping my ovary."

Her doctor objected by emphatically stating,"You have another."

"I have two of a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I should give one up," she reasoned.

She was adamant that her doctor leave her ovary in place, and he obliged by performing a delicate surgery. He was quite proud of himself. Normally surgeons dive in with a dirty dull civil war amputation saw and hack off two fingers of their assistant. This dude did a nice job saving Christine's ovary. A few years later time would be against us. Having children later in life is a risky business. Many women lose babies and that absorbs a lot of time that older parents just don't have. We both wanted another child. Neither of us thought it was possible so we adopted a not so regimented rhythm method.

"If God wants us to have another baby, then it will just happen," Christine rationalized.

"Well what's he waiting for? We're doing our part," I said.

Eight years after the first Christine was pregnant again against the odds at 45. She became the poster mom for women trying to have babies later in life. I am certain that life cannot be contained. It breaks free, it pushes boundaries, expands into new territories, painfully maybe even dangerously. Life finds a way. There it is.

William was born which made our population neutral family complete. A consummate mother I've seen my wife cook meals while helping with algebra. She assessed skinned knees while making brownies. She was her father's favorite. An accident herself, welcomed by a former stern navy man who did anything for his little girl. She was his princess even though she was a tomboy. She assisted her father with electrical jobs around the house. He helped her with a science project to make a digital cooking thermometer. She grew to be a very responsible and independent child who maintained the family pool by the time she was eight years old. Her father was a strong and positive influence in her life. The only other time I saw her cry was when her dad passed away after a long illness.

I was attracted to her because of her beauty and intelligence. She was a mechanical engineer who took classes in tribology, that is bearing design. She has a college textbook, entitled Principles of Tribology by J. Halling. I wrote in the inside cover a note that appeared to come from the author,

"Christine,

Good luck with your study of bearings. I hope you find tribology as rewarding a career as I have.

All my best,

   J. Halling"

Apparently, she discovered my lame gag some years ago so she wrote in my computer science text, Object-Oriented Software Construction by Bertrand Meyer.

"Robert,

I hope you discover someday that tribology is a far more intellectual pursuit than computer science.

All my best,

  Bertrand Meyer"

Christine helps me with projects around the house. I've learned to listen to her every word. She is an expert at uncovering mistakes in progress. When she says,

"I have a question."

I know to ring up "All Stop" and listen because she often points out something I'm doing wrong. She has three boys in her life that gang up on her when we play "I Spy." One day Christine found some hospital paperwork for when William was born. She said,

"You know, Willy came down my right ovary."

She pointed to a line of data on the paper.

"Yeah," I said unknowingly.

"That's the ovary they wanted to take."

To think that the our second child would never be the boy we know now if her doctor had trashed her ovary years earlier. William managed to make his way down some busted up piping, and she carried him to the very beginning.

Women often take the lead when it comes to procreation. If they left it up to men, we would be happy muddling along while we occasionally cut the lawn and work on our "projects" in the shed with a case of Budweiser stubbies as we hum Escape, (the Pina Colada song). I for one will never finish that bird house, but somehow I was involved in producing two other human beings. I really think I was just a willing accomplice. I grew up in a time when parents were not all that involved. I could've just as well been the same kind of parent I had. In fact the odds were in favor of it. Although it might be common to climb your way out of a hole, you need someone special in your life to rise above it. While Christine is not my mother, one thing is for certain.

As a father, she made me.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017.