With Each Tap – 2021 – 100 Word Flash Fiction Entry
She turns the corner of the path and blinks as a brilliant ray of sunlight announces itself from behind a looming pine. Her walking stick taps along the worn cobbles, a well-timed beat that has slowed over the course of the 20 years since she’s needed it. Each tap reveals a memory of the making of this path.
Tap.
Their first kiss on the stump of a now-rotting oak on her right.
Tap.
After a midnight skinny-dip, cool beads of lake water dripping from his hair, twinkling in the moonlight, and falling onto her nose as he leans in to whisper “I love you” for the first time.
Tap.
Directed by a note, she sees the glow of the emerald moss from flickering candles lighting the pathway. She finds him waiting at the end on one knee, not just with a ring, but with a promise to always walk with her.
Tap.
His voice as he quietly hums a lullaby next to her as she carries their son, his feather blonde hair lightly tickling her cheek as the breeze floats by.
Tap.
He smiles down crookedly, showing one dimple, as he lets out a mischievous roar and chases their daughter.
Tap.
Hand in hand as they find themselves alone once again, reintroducing themselves to each other, even though she knows every line in his face.
Tap.
The silence of his absent footsteps next to her echoes deafeningly.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Her eyes still closed, she absorbs the warmth and smiles.
The First Baby – 2014
I can’t say that I always wanted to be a mother. Sure, growing up I had the baby dolls, clothes and strollers, and I did my obligatory years of babysitting neighborhood and church kids. All the while, I had the romantic notion in the back of my mind that someday I would meet the perfect man and start my own family. As the story of my life unfolded, it turned into a cautionary tale instead of the fairytale I had imagined. I even thought at one point that the motherhood chapter in my life would be left unwritten. Like any good story, with some plot twists, mine found its happy ending after all.
As a teenager, I always pictured myself being a modern twenty-something girl who was independent, smart, stylish, just starting to make an impact on this world, with energy and vision abounding. I went to college, traveled abroad and graduated with honors. I was on my way. I never thought by the age of twenty-five I would be laid off and divorced, throwing away all my well-laid-plans to start over again alone. I didn’t think so then, but a do-over was exactly what I needed.
My three-year relationship and nine month marriage to my ex has been tidily filed in my brain as the “well-intended mistake.” Even though much of our relationship was through screams, tears, threats, insults, abuse and apologies, I thought my love was enough to make it work for the two of us. Having children was never in our plans, and I thought it was because I wanted more out of life than becoming the a-typical family. I never thought I was the “motherly” type. After God gave me the strength to leave the abuse, I realized that the reason why I thought I didn’t want to become a mother wasn’t because I didn’t want to have children. It was because I didn’t want to have children with him.
That was my first protective instinct as a mother, even to an unborn child, and in that instant I knew I wanted to be one.
Six years after my divorce, in May of 2012, I married an incredibly supportive and loving man. One month later, I was pregnant. The timing was finally right. I can confess that when other parents told me “everything is going to change,” I would smile and nod and say “oh I know,” but I really had no idea. We read the books, took the classes, had two baby showers, and turned our semi-small condo into a mini Babies-R-Us. I thought we were ready. I can tell you now, we were prepared, but we weren’t ready.
Even the last month of my by-the-book pregnancy was not what I expected. I never thought I could be so uncomfortable and still function a full day at work. I never thought my husband leaving socks on the floor or his hat on the counter would make me irrationally question his ability as a father. I never thought I would envy every person in a restaurant drinking a glass of wine or a pint of beer. I couldn’t sleep, I was too full to eat, and every part of me seemed to be swollen like goofy balloon animals. Still pregnant a week after my due date, I walked through every store and mall in the area trying to start labor. All I did was put my credit cards and bank account through some very hard labor. I thought I was living quite possibly the longest week of my life. That is, until about a week into having a newborn.
My labor was pretty uneventful according to medical standards. In the midst of my every-two-minute pitocin induced contractions, while I gripped my husband’s hand, I thought women were crazy to ever do this more than once. And then, after seven and a half hours of labor and blessedly only twenty minutes of pushing, my son was here. They put him on my chest and we looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity in a second. I didn’t cry like I thought I would. The moment was everything and nothing I expected. It wasn’t until everyone had left the room and he latched on to nurse, with the realization that I was his only source for nourishment, protection, support, love, everything, that I started to cry. Suddenly, all of the uncomfortable moments of pregnancy and pain of delivery were pushed to that section of my brain, which every mother must have, labeled “it was worth it.”
My first two months as a new mom I was taken aback by so many emotions and situations I never expected. I didn’t expect that nursing would be so hard. It’s natural, right? I should have the maternal instinct to do this in my sleep, right? Not in the slightest. I felt I needed two more arms and two more contributing breasts while you’re at it. I didn’t realize that when they say he eats about every 2 hours, they mean it. And it’s not every 2 hours from when he’s done; it’s 2 hours from the time he starts. In the beginning while we were both figuring it all out, a nursing session could last up to an hour, which meant by the time I got him to go to sleep, he was just about ready to nurse again. When do I sleep? I almost threw in the towel so many times. If I didn’t have a well-versed nursing friend with two boys to talk me through my meltdowns and hadn’t gone to a La Leche League meeting in the third week, I’m positive I would have. I will say it again: nursing is hard. But when I looked down now at his chubby little thighs and dimpled knees, and saw his sleepy “milk coma” sweet smiles, knowing I provided this nourishment, I can’t think of anything more worth the struggle.
Going along with the struggle of nursing, I wasn’t prepared for the crying. And I’m not talking about the baby here. I am not really a “girly” type. I am pretty laid back and reserved, not letting my emotions take over too often. I read in pregnancy books how the hormones after you give birth give you quite a rollercoaster ride and thought I could handle it. Oh the highs and lows it took me on. I would be crying one moment and laughing about how silly it was in the same breath. When my exhaustion would take over, so would the water works and the “I can’t do this anymore” pleas. I couldn’t believe how emotionally fragile I felt after doing something that required so much strength from my body. I had never given much thought to when my friends or family had a new baby except they must have been so happy for this adorable tiny addition to their family. I have so much more respect for mothers and the amount of physical and emotional adjustment they go through in the beginning, my own mother especially. I now wish I had been more supportive in the past because I certainly was grateful for every meal brought over, helping hand, and ear to listen as I cried. And Lord knows I would have fallen apart without the constant support and encouragement from my husband who is always attentive and understanding through it all, both as a husband and a father.
As a new mom, I found myself overwhelmed with an all-consuming concern and love for my son. I never thought I could be so bound to someone that every waking hour, minute, second I thought of him. Was he eating enough? Why wasn’t he pooping? What was that cry about? What would I do if insert-any-number-of-scenarios happened to him? Watching the news is a totally different experience. What if it was my son that was killed in that bombing? What would I do if we had a devastating tornado and I had to protect him? So much love and so much fear. I am starting to learn that this will never go away. As my dad always says, “the bigger the kid, the bigger the problems.” All I can do is pray every night that God will protect him and make me a supportive and encouraging mom, through all bumps and bruises of life. Am I scared of failing? Damn right. Would I change a thing? Not a chance.
Kate Genord 