It lasted about 20 seconds.

It had been a typical Monday. He was whiny from his sleep-deprived weekend. He was frustrated, bursting in to tears over the smallest things. But now, newly awakened from a refreshing nap, he was running in the back yard, chasing a ball, swinging, and otherwise being happy.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with the puffy cumulus clouds dotting the uncharacteristically blue sky. A light breeze kept the temperature around 70 degrees, which was perfect for an afternoon in the yard.

My son looked and pointed at the sky, maybe seeing another airplane or a bird. I told him about cloud shapes, and called him over to look with me. I lay down in the grass, and he toddled over and lay down beside me, his one-year-old head resting against my arm and shoulder. As I pointed up at the sky, he giggled and burbled along, pointing upward towards the clouds.

And that is why I stay home with him every day: to lie down in the grass and look at the clouds with him for 20 seconds every now and then. It’s all worth it.

I’ve never had incredible self confidence, and I always second guess my abilities. Taking on the role of mother is still incredibly daunting to me, even eighteen months after my son’s birth. But the process of giving birth has so much to do with how I still approach motherhood.

When I first entered the delivery room that Sunday morning, I asked how long I should expect to be in labor. The midwife suggested that normal progress would be 4 hours for every 2 centimeters dilation. Since I was only 4 centimeters at that point, I could therefore expect 12 more hours of labor! I couldn’t stand the thought of such a long time. I’d already been awake most of the night.

Because it seemed there was so much time left, I decided to wait until I seriously couldn’t bear it anymore before asking for the epidural. While I expected I’d eventually take the pain medication, it would be a long time stuck on my back.

Less than two hours later, I asked for it. I couldn’t stand the pain. With each contraction, I already told my husband, “I can’t do this!” He calmly reassured me that I could.

By the time I asked for the epidural, however, it was too late-I was fully dilated. I couldn’t have an epidural at that point. It was nearly time to push.

In some respects, it was exciting to know that my son was so near to being born. It’s very good to have a shorter labor. But I just knew I couldn’t have a baby without numbing all the pain.

“How long?” I asked.

“Within two hours.”

Two more hours! I couldn’t do it. I would die. I firmly decided that if the baby hadn’t been born by 3 p.m, I would succumb to death. But I’d make a valiant effort before I did. I owed that to my husband and this baby that wanted to be born.

The contractions were horrible. But then the most amazing thing happened: in between each I was able to breathe and get ready for the next one. During each contraction I would feel so horrible and I’d tell everyone in the room I couldn’t do it. But then I’d get a moment to catch my breath. And I’d realize that the baby was coming.

Whenever I said “I can’t do it!”, my husband would say “You are doing great” and the midwives would say “You are doing it!”

Well, my son sure took his time. It was more than 2 hours. 3 p.m. came and he still hadn’t been pushed out. But he was nearly there. I decided not to die. And then, with one long push, there was my son. He was born. The midwife put him on my belly.

He was: blue and squirmy and tiny. And yet, he was so huge for having just come from inside of me! It was an incredible thing to finally hold him, and while I cannot describe my first emotional impression of seeing my son, I recall that it was powerful. I was a mother.

That night, my husband left the hospital and I was left with our newborn son. He was fussy and wouldn’t go to sleep. I was exhausted and the adrenaline was wearing off. I’d been up most of the night before with contractions and so I hadn’t had a very restful sleep then either. As a new mom, I think I must have felt I would be betraying my new son if I put him to sleep all alone in his bassinet if he wasn’t yet fully asleep. (I was cured of that pretty quickly.)

As I paced the floor, I thought a silly thought: “Come on! Go to sleep! I can’t stay awake much longer!”

And then it happened: I realized I could never truly say “can’t” again.

I had just been through childbirth without pain medication of any kind. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d be able to do that. And yet, I had done it. Certainly, walking the room with my baby when I was exhausted was nothing compared to that. I could handle whatever comes.

I have forgotten many times. I still doubt myself. And if I’m labor again, I will probably say “I can’t do this!” It’s how life is: we forget. But I have had an experience that solidifies the fact that I can do so much more than I think I can do.

When I was up late last week, exhausted and feverish, holding my feverish toddler, I could handle it.

When my son throws his food on the floor and laughs in my face and I know my husband is out of town for another three days, I can handle it.

And in the coming years, when my son hurts himself and is screaming and bleeding, I can handle it.

I may not feel like I can on those days of utter exhaustion or frustration or worry, but I didn’t feel like I could deliver a baby without medicine either. We don’t know what we are able to do until we are called upon to do it.

I certainly feel that my call of Mother is beyond my own power. But I know that God sustained me during the birth of my son. And with His sustaining power in my life, I no longer can say “I can’t” to any challenge along the way in this journey called Motherhood.

I won’t tell anyone to go through childbirth without drugs. I certainly wanted them! (We live in an age with pain medicine, why not use it?) In general, however, I think we need to stop telling ourselves “I can’t” if we truly don’t know our ability. We shouldn’t let our perception of how bad things will be (or are) cloud our ability to actually do them. We can!

Adapted for the April Write-Away contest at Scribbit, theme Mom. For me, being a Mom means remembering that that I can do anything I need to.

The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.

My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.

“What’s a superhero?”

“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.

“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”

By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.

We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?

Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner – a “real” dinner – for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.

With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.

My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.

One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.

I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.

Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.

• It’s still bland: how much salt?
• The sauce is too thin: what did I forget?
• The sauce is too acidic: what can I add to balance the flavor?

Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.

My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.

I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.

Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.

To my husband, my culinary inspiration

True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit

Fictional response loosely based on [Fiction] Friday prompt: Tell about someone who is obsessed.

We moved next door to the Bismarks two weeks before I began my sophomore year. Mom and I had been through a painful year since Dad had left her, and we really felt a move was necessary: A new beginning without the painful place memories. I don’t know if I preferred the fact that Dad was now a state away or if I missed him too much. I was mad at him, but I still loved him, of course.

I knew something was odd about the neighbors from the beginning. On moving day, I was carrying a box of my mother’s books (one of the 15 boxes) out the car when I noticed the tinted windows. When I did a double take, I noticed the heavy blinds and curtains. I saw one blind flutter, but only slightly.

“What do you know about the neighbors?” I asked my mom when I entered the kitchen. I’d taken the box of books upstairs to her library, wishing with each step that we had purchased a ranch house like the neighbors’. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to open a box labeled “KITC MISC” with her fingernails. I tossed our car keys to her.

I watched as she slid the key through the tape and popped the box open. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the odd, tinted windows.

“Ah ha!” she said proudly as she extricated an egg beater from the box and held it up to show me. “Finally!”

“So, the neighbors…” I started again.

“Oh, the realtor said the Bismarks are a little odd but good neighbors,” she said off handedly, pulling out more kitchen utensils. “And they have a little girl.” She smiled and nodded to me.

I’d spent nearly every afternoon freshman year watching five-year-old Lizzy Johnson; a good gig, but a bit exhausting by the end of the year.

“I think I saw her watching,” I said, nodding. I wasn’t sure I wanted another regular babysitting job. It was fine for a freshman, but for sophomore year I was hoping for more of a social life than five-year-old Lizzy Johnson.

“I’ll bake something for you to take over,” Mom said, unpacking the measuring spoons.

I rolled my eyes. My mom is a compulsive baker and the fact that we were surrounded by unpacked boxes in a still-partially furnished home didn’t stop her, it only encouraged her. She had to have her home-cooked goodness for the neighbors!

When Mom handed me a carefully covered plate of cookies a few days later, I was glad. I’d spent so much time inside unpacking and setting up the house that I was eager to get out. Besides, I didn’t know anyone, so I was on my own until school began.

The door only opened a crack when I knocked. Beverly Bismark peered out, just barely. There were bags under her bright green eyes, and her smile looked uncomfortable. I don’t think she was more than 35, but the wrinkles on her forehead and the graying hair made her look ten years older. I could barely see beyond her into the darkness of her home.

“I brought you these cookies,” I began. “We just moved in next door.”

She nodded and eyed the cookies.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m afraid there may be traces of nuts.”

“Well, actually, they are chocolate chip,” I said, extending the plate toward her. I was glad my mom hadn’t made banana nut, which were my personal favorite.

“Well, you see, I have a little girl,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, as if that explained it. She motioned the plate away.

She didn’t expound further. I apologized that we hadn’t known her girl was allergic to nuts.

She looked surprised as she explained that no, Elsa wasn’t allergic as far as she knew, but they weren’t taking any chances until she was a bit older: “The longer you wait, the less risk of a nut allergy developing. Obviously, nut allergies can be quite serious. I’m not taking any chances with my little girl’s life.”

Turns out Elsa was 7. I’d heard of paranoid parents, but that was a bit much for me.

I finally met Elsa a few weeks later. The semester had started and I’d finally met some people. But when Mom told me she’d bragged to Mrs. Bismark about my babysitting abilities and Mrs. Bismark had mentioned babysitting that Saturday night, I was eager for the spending money.

Mom had given her the names and numbers of the Johnsons and about four other families I’d babysat in Springvale. Mrs. Bismark had called them all. Apparently, none of them revealed any of my babysitting mistakes, because Saturday night at 6, I was ringing the Bismark’s bell.

Even though I spent just a few minutes (okay, more like 15 minutes) with Beverly Bismark, I could tell she was a bit uptight. She had a fifteen-page printed booklet with information and emergency phone numbers about Elsa’s care. She walked me through the entire house showing me the fire extinguishers, fire blankets, and the first aid kits in each room (yes, each room).

I confess now, I didn’t read the booklet.

Mr. Bismark (I never did learn his first name), on the other hand, stood patiently by the front door, his wife’s coat in hand, waiting for her to finish her routine. I could sense he was eager to leave.

Elsa’s green eyes peered from behind the door to her bedroom, just as her mother had out of the front door. When she emerged completely, all elbows and stringy red hair, I sensed her reluctance to let me stay with her. Mrs. Bismark could hardly stand to leave us. With Elsa quietly avoiding me and Mrs. Bismark sturdily repeating “I trust you, I trust you,” I wasn’t sure what to expect from the evening.

When the Bismarks finally left, Beverly shouting out last minute instructions even as the car drove away, I turned to Elsa, who was watching me.

Here goes! I thought to myself.

I don’t know how to explain the rest of the evening. Elsa loosened up rather well, but I felt like I just kept having the most bizarre conversations. For example, we went to the kitchen to make Elsa’s dinner. A leftover organic pasta dish of some sort was labeled in the fridge. When I headed for the microwave, Elsa stopped me.

“No!” she nearly shouted. “You can’t microwave that!”

I must have looked confused. When I stopped and looked at her, she clarified.

“Obviously, you can’t microwave things for children,” she explained as if I knew nothing. “The waves in a microwave are very bad.”

I think I must have nodded. Regardless, I reheated the food on the stove.

Mrs. Bismark called the first time while we were eating dinner. She’d forgotten to tell me not to use the microwave and she wanted to make sure I’d seen it in the booklet. I assured her all was well, and encouraged her to enjoy their business dinner.

Elsa piled her food in her mouth, almost inhaling it. It was amazing to watch. I think she must have been eager to eat without her mother correcting her manners.

I asked her about school, since the year had just begun.

“My mom’s my teacher,” she replied with a full mouth. “I can’t go school.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t realized she was home schooled as well. Did she ever leave the tinted-window house?

“Well, for one, the playground is not safe. She thinks I’m going to fall and die.” Now Elsa glared at me, as if daring me to agree. “I won’t, you know. I don’t like heights. I’d stay on the ground.”

I nodded and assured her I knew that.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggested when she finished eating. The Bismarks had a long but shallow backyard. It was fenced. Surely there was nothing forbidden about that. She nodded and stood up.

“Just a minute,” she said. She rushed to her room, while I put the dishes in the sink. When she returned, she had on a hat and sunglasses. Apparently, her mother was concerned that she’d get sunburned. Even when I pointed out that the sun was in the process of setting, she wouldn’t take them off.

“You’re not a redhead; you don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “I could get really sick if I get too much sun.”

We played catch for a while with an inflatable globe I found in Elsa’s room. It didn’t work too well, but at least I got Elsa laughing. When the sun had mostly gone down, Elsa insisted we return inside. (”Mosquitoes can make you really sick, you know.”)

Later, Elsa explained that she couldn’t take a bath, only a shower, because there was a chance she’d drown in a bath, even in just a few inches. She couldn’t read in her bedroom because the lights were bad and she’d go blind. Her lists of forbidden activities just grew longer. Mrs. Bismark called twice more to check in.

Eventually, Elsa was asleep. And at 9:30, the Bismarks returned home. I thanked them and tried to give Mrs. Bismark the minute-by-minute rundown of our evening that she wanted. She didn’t seem happy that we’d gone outside, but I assured her that Elsa had worn her hat and glasses. Finally, I escaped the Bismarks’ clutches.

I never babysat Elsa again. The next few times they called, I had other plans; I’d just gotten my driver’s license after all. And by the next spring, they had their house with the tinted windows up for sale. Mom told me that the Bismarks were divorcing.

I thought of my dad, who I was still mad at but who I missed so much. And I felt the deep ache in my heart when I thought of skinny little Elsa Bismark trying to explain to herself why she can’t see her parents together anymore.

Apparently, Mrs. Bismark’s obsession with keeping Elsa safe couldn’t stop pain and reality from entering Elsa’s life.

There is always a shadow of truth in fiction. Lately, I’ve found I’ve been “obsessed” with ways my eight-month-old could die: drown in the bathtub, choke on his dinner, fall down the stairs. This story is my reminder to lighten up! I can never completely protect him: here’s a deep thought from Finding Nemo.

Marlin: I promised I’d never let anything happen to him.
Dory: Hmm. That’s a funny thing to promise.
Marlin: What?
Dory: Well, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo.

If he wasn’t born by 3 p.m., I would die. I would quit, that’s all.

“I can’t do this!” I said again.

“You are doing it!” the midwife repeated.

At 3 p.m., I decided not to die. Thirteen minutes later, with one long push, my son appeared, blue and squirmy and tiny.

That night, alone and exhausted, I held my fussy newborn in my arms, willing him to sleep: “I can’t stay awake much longer!”

And I realized I will never quit on him: after birthing him without medication, I can and will handle anything in the challenge called motherhood.

Fiction response to Write Anything prompt for Picture This

I knew it was wrong to marry him. But he promised me riches and comfort, and it was easy to believe as I watched him pay $400 for my nine-course meal at the nicest restaurant in town. We would be so happy together, he said, as he added me to his credit card account. We’d never see the bill: it was covered by his employer in total, no questions asked.

In the end, he convinced me. It was partly all the fancy dining he treated me to, with the season of box seats at the opera. But I wanted that four-bedroom home with the manicured garden and gourmet kitchen. I wanted the brand-new BMW every year, complete with a new car smell. I wanted the free travel around the world, and I certainly wanted the comfy leather chair in the library with unlimited books. He had his employer write it all into the marriage contract. But I know now I should have read the fine print.

We found the perfect house. It had a white picket fence in the back yard. During his first two weeks’ leave, we decided on paint colors for the walls. During his next leave, we married and moved in. I was so happy.

It was not very long before our baby was on the way. I was still getting used to all the household servants (I didn’t like telling them what to do and kept apologizing) and I was still building the library. But it was a perfect excuse to add pregnancy self-help books and children’s books to the shelves. I was excited to find that it was a girl. I bought pink bows and dresses for her. I canceled our trip to London and painted the nursery lavender. His employer gave him five years local work so he wouldn’t be away. We would have a wonderful little family.

I realized in the hospital that something wasn’t quite right. He took her away from me after the first night. I asked him to bring her to me, and he started talking to me about protocol. I was a bit exhausted from the labor, so I did enjoy a little rest and pampering. But by the end of the first week, I was ready to see her a lot more than I had seen her!

It was then that he got out the marriage contract and showed me the fine print. I thought the Rumpelstilskin Program was about being a soldier for life in exchange for every comfort you could imagine.

I didn’t realize it meant my daughter’s life, too.

I’m sitting now in my chair. Twenty books are on my side table, but I can’t bring myself to read any of them. Kate is about to bring in my supper, but I don’t have much of an appetite. The house is immaculate—all four-bedrooms—and the flower garden is perfectly groomed. I believe the lilacs are out this week, but I haven’t walked in the garden all spring. I have a new Mercedes in the driveway, but it still has only 78 miles on it.

They will be home from work late tonight. That is why I sit and look at their photograph: my husband and my daughter, Soldiers.

Yes, they have a good relationship. They work together most of the day, Daddy showing her how to do the job she will have to do for the rest of her life.

She thinks it’s a game. I am dreading the day when she finds out it is not.

I lift him above my head: his mouth opens wide in a baby-grin and he laughs loudly, soaring above me, arms outstretched. I smile too, my heart memorizing the sound, the sight, and the feeling of chubby childhood joy.

***

I turn away: in my mind I still see the tears on his pumpkin-covered face and in my ears I still hear his constant scream of baby indignation. I sigh and grab a towel to wipe away the blood on my finger, wishing someone would kiss my sore better.

This is motherhood: a daily dichotomy.