Khaki

HOLES

One of the ways I knew that I would be a good designer is that when I walk into a room, I always feel like it’s telling me something. It needs another piece of furniture, the addition of color—sometimes all the room is missing is a little more uncluttered space.

Like our rooms, we are so often missing something, walking around with some sort of gap that won’t close. I can’t see that there will ever be a day that a hole shaped like Alex’s daddy won’t live in my soul. And, in an even larger way, I’m sure that a miniature version of you will always be cut out of your mom. If you look around, most people have some kind of wound that never stitched itself up. An unrequited love. The one that got away. Losing a momma or a daddy. An irreplaceable family pet. I’d bet the last strawberry bushel of the season that every person you meet wakes up in the morning missing something.

Jodi and I’ve never talked about this, but I know she’s braver than I am on the outside whether she is on the inside or not. She handled having you like nothing I’ve ever seen. I like to make myself feel better by justifying that she was so calm, composed and, most important, quiet because she had the sense to have an epidural and I had my friend Stacey in my ear talking me out of it. But the truth of the matter is, some people simply have more inner strength, more ability to internalize pain.

She told me after you were born that once you’re in it you don’t have any choice but to get through so you may as well do it keeping as much of your dignity intact as possible. I guess after all the hard knocks that girl has lived through, having a baby just seemed like the hurdle God put out for her to jump over that day.

We hadn’t planned for me to be in the room when you were born. I had been with Jodi most of the day, ran home for a quick shower, and came back to the hospital to bring some Popsicles and some thick, plush washcloths for your birth mother’s head.

Jodi smiled at me weakly and said, “Cherry flavor would be real nice.”

She winced in pain, blew her breath out, and I said, “Bad contraction?”

She nodded. “This is real embarrassing,” she whispered. “I gotta go to the bathroom, but I cain’t get up ’cause I cain’t feel my legs.”

“Oh my gosh!” I leaned over and mashed that nurse button about a million times. The head nurse came over the intercom, and said, “May I help you?”

“Yes!” I practically screamed. “I don’t know the first damn thing about delivering a baby, and she’s feeling like she needs to push!”

It wasn’t a heartbeat later that two nurses came rushing in and, as the door slammed, a doctor charged in right behind. I held Jodi’s hand and wiped her pale, sweaty face with one of those cold rags while the doctor checked her. “Ten centimeters!” he exclaimed, snapping his glove.

I patted Jodi’s hand, and neither of us said a word, but the look on her face told me that she was terrified and could I please stay. So, of course, I did. In the moment, you aren’t thinking about how you’re seeing someone’s parts that should be reserved for husbands and bedrooms. You’re thinking about how God’s greatest miracle since creation is happening and you get to witness it. That’s what I was thinking, anyway.

She closed her eyes in the calmest, smoothest way I’ve ever seen, and I swear it wasn’t ten minutes later you were born. When you watch people on TV give birth it’s always screaming and hustling around and doctors directing nurses. But it wasn’t like that when you were born. It was peaceful. It was so still and quiet in there, church on a summer day when almost everybody’s at the beach. Maybe that’s why you didn’t make one peep when you were born. You just came out, your little eyes open and looking around, taking it all in for a few moments before you showed us what those tiny pipes could do.

And it wasn’t until I laughed, tears in my eyes, and looked back at your mom to say, “You did it!” that I even noticed she had passed out. I gasped and said, “Nurse!” which is when she handed you to me.

My mind was racing because, even though I knew your birth mom was prone to fainting, there are still those incredibly rare cases where childbirth doesn’t go well. But the panic alarm in my head quieted when I saw your beautiful face. Puckered little lips and big blue eyes. I shouldn’t actually admit this anywhere but in my mind, but, for a breath, I thought that if Jodi didn’t wake up I’d take the best care of you in the world. It wasn’t like I didn’t want her to wake up. But, you know, you have to prepare for the worst case.

But then she opened her eyes, and I handed you to her. It was such a moment of pure, unadulterated love between a mother and her child that I didn’t even feel sorry it wasn’t happening to me. I relished the glow of it all. With me contemplating surgery and fertility drugs and in vitro and other words I never thought would be a part of my vocabulary, I thought that seeing Jodi hold you might hurt just a little, give me the slightest pang of envy for the motherhood journey that she was embarking on and leaving me behind. And that’s how I know for sure that what Pauline always told me was true: God gives you the grace you need for even the toughest moments.