CHAPTER 1
THE BEST GIFT
The Macon Telegraph
December 16, 1990
My husband and I had plans to go to his parents' house about thirty miles away for a big party on Christmas Eve 1979. I had bought a fancy new dress just for the occasion and was really looking forward to the gala. I figured it might be my last fling for a while. The presents were all neatly wrapped and waiting under the tree.
We didn't make it to that party.
I had stayed awake most of the previous night with serious stomach cramps. Around dawn, it finally occurred to me that I must be in labor — but the baby wasn't due until the day AFTER Christmas, not the day BEFORE. And I wasn't ready to not be pregnant anymore — I liked it.
Anyway, by the time I got my husband up and moving, there was no doubt. My water broke while he was dressing, and what I had thought were cramps became real-life contractions.
Everything I had learned in childbirth classes quickly flew out the window. All I could think was how much it hurt — nobody had told me about that. I forgot all about the breathing exercises that were supposed to relieve the pain, and I forgot to find a focal point to concentrate on.
My coach wasn't much better. He couldn't remember what to tell me to do or when I should do it. In the delivery room, he was still telling me to push after the baby was out.
I survived the pain, and my husband survived the trauma. In fact, it was all a faded memory within seconds after Nathaniel Harlan Taylor slipped into my world. The nurse handed the baby to my husband and told him to bathe it.
This was the same man who practically fainted at the sight of blood, who had to be dragged to Lamaze classes, and who had resisted right up to the last minute even being in the same room with me during delivery.
But he just melted into a blob of tender love as he held his tiny son at less than a minute old and gently cleaned him. Watching them in that moment touched me so deeply that nothing else mattered. I no longer cared that I was going to miss the party of the year. We had a miracle to marvel over — what could be more exciting?
I've often wished I had captured that on camera — not for me, but for my son. It's forever etched in my mind, but he hasn't seen a lot of that side of his dad.
On Christmas morning, the nurse came into my room with a big red stocking and handed it to me. Snuggled down inside, with just a head showing, was this incredibly gorgeous baby boy who had actually come out of my body. I was still in a mild state of shock. He was the perfect baby I had struggled for fifteen hours the day before to bring into this world, the one I had waited for all these years.
The pain of the previous day, the reality of the commitment that had been made, and the apprehension about my tremendous responsibility for this child faded into oblivion as I stared at the bundle next to me. Holding his hand and watching him nurse, I felt the most powerful surge of emotion — literally indescribable, but unforgettable.
I thought about the first time I heard Barbra Streisand sing "The Best Gift" on her Christmas album, about a tiny newborn child. I felt the song must have been written for me. She completely captured my sentiments.
CHAPTER 2
A LITTLE BOY'S QUESTIONS ABOUT SEX
The Macon Telegraph
August 17, 1988
At the ripe old age of about three and a half, my son asked me where he came from. I have no idea what prompted him to ask that question at that time — we were on our way to preschool one morning, just riding along, watching the scenery.
With ten minutes of heavy Atlanta traffic left to go, it was hard to concentrate on an appropriate answer to an obviously serious question. His father and I were already separated, so I couldn't really expect him to understand what I was going to say about lovemaking. This was going to be tough.
(As soon as he was able to talk and put names to items, he knew — or at least was told — the proper words for the parts of the body. That much was easy. Explaining the connection of some of those body parts to his being here was the real challenge.)
Meanwhile, Nathaniel anxiously awaited my response. I quickly explained how an egg inside my body was fertilized by a sperm from his daddy and how he grew from that fertilized egg. Great so far.
His next question, with less than three minutes to go, was how did the sperm get to the egg — did I swallow it?
I answered his question using the correct names for as few words as I could get away with. His response was silence — a long silence.
I dropped him off at preschool, went to work, and worried the rest of the day. He didn't mention the subject again.
About a year later, I came across Where Did I Come From, by Peter Mayle, in an Atlanta bookstore. I flipped through the book — it was perfect — and purchased it immediately. I didn't take it home to Nathaniel. I put it away, thinking the next time he asked about his origins, I would give it to him for reference.
The book went through two moves and lay forgotten in the bottom of a box in my attic. This spring I came across it and pulled it out, thinking the time was drawing nigh. My son, now eight and a half, saw the book, curiously picked it up, and started reading. I quietly sneaked out of the room to allow him to peruse in private.
Not many minutes passed before he found me and sat down beside me with the book open, ready to pursue this endeavor together. Having just completed the second grade, there were some words he couldn't quite understand.
Where Did I Come From is illustrated by Arthur Robins. The illustrations, while cute, are straightforward and leave little to the imagination — a man and woman are shown nude, lying in bed, and in the bathtub.
Nathaniel giggled a few times at some of the descriptions and drawings of "Mom and Dad" making love, but he understood: "(Making love is) a difficult feeling to describe, but if you can imagine a gentle tingle, a sort of tickle that starts in your stomach and spreads all over, that will give you some idea of what it's like."
The book is accurate and no-nonsense, and it's entertaining for young children. Nathaniel put it down after getting about halfway through.
He had lost interest by then. He occasionally picks it up and looks through it now and may even ask for some clarification.
I feel better. He knows as much as he wants to know for the time being about sex and how babies are made. He also knows the door is open for further, more explicit inquiry whenever he's interested. And he doesn't even have to leave home to get it.
CHAPTER 3
THE WORKING MOM'S DILEMMA DOESN'T SHRINK AS HER CHILD GROWS UP
The Macon Telegraph
November 26, 1989
When our food editor returned to work from maternity leave recently, she knew it would be difficult to leave her three-month-old daughter. She didn't know it would be so painful.
Fortunately, she has a husband who is thrilled about being a father and has a flexible enough schedule that he can share childcare responsibilities. She was also able to arrange her own work schedule for her convenience. Together they figured out a plan that required a minimal amount of outside care and looked like it would work.
Within less than a month back on the job, she was lamenting her plight. She hates being away from her baby, feels guilty about it, and is concerned her husband is pulling more than his share of the load. She's afraid she will miss some milestones in her child's development, and that she will not be around when needed.
No mother with small children is ever fully prepared for the emotional trauma that accompanies working outside the home. It has nothing to do with the job and everything to do with being a mother. (Yes, many fathers go through the same anxieties, but we still live in a society where the mother is traditionally the primary caretaker of children.)
Most women don't have a choice in the matter. They are often the only source of income for their family. For those who do have a working spouse, their income is still usually required to make ends meet.
The bad news is, the dilemma doesn't end as the baby grows. In fact, as far as I can tell, the older the child gets, the more it needs its mother — up to a point.
My son was ten months old when he first went to day care. It took a while to find the right one, a place that would give him the tender loving care he deserved — and that I could afford. I cried every morning after leaving him, knowing I was being a lousy mother.
But I had to work, and there was no family around to take care of him. In those days, I had a reasonable nine-to-five workday, so we were able to spend several hours together every evening before bedtime. I got used to the situation, but it was never easy.
After about age two, Nathaniel started looking forward to day care so he could play with other kids. Some days I would nearly have to pry him away when it was time to go. He was having so much fun, he didn't want to leave. That didn't help matters. I was afraid he would forget who his real mother was.
Then he started learning and doing cute little things I had nothing to do with. He picked up attitudes and ideas that were different from anything he had heard from me — not that they were bad or good, just different. I felt like an observer of his development rather than a participant in his life.
My dreams of having this little clone who would think like me, have the same values, and be my friend for life were starting to deteriorate. Not that I ever really expected that to happen, but it had crossed my mind.
Soon after Nate began school, I started working longer hours. And, he noticed I wasn't always around when he wanted or needed me. He has become quite vocal about it.
A while back we were in the middle of a conversation about my working that upcoming weekend. He became intense, stood on the bed so he could look me right in the eye, and wagged his finger.
"Mom, you tell them to get somebody else to do that. You can't work seven days a week. You need a break, and you tell them you got a son that needs you, too."
Like the food editor, I also have a husband who is willing and able to fill in some of the childcare gaps I leave. Wayne is home when Nate gets out of school, makes sure he does his homework, plays with him, carts him around to his various activities, and prepares his dinner. Too many nights, he even puts him to bed.
Nate asks me every morning what time I'll get home that night. I always try to estimate, then add an hour. (Working at a newspaper, where anything can happen, does not lend itself to predictable schedules — fun, excitement, and challenge, but not predictability.)
Wayne and Nate play this game of adding even another hour before they start expecting me and then seeing who's closer to being right.
When I do get home before Nate gets in bed, he practically becomes an appendage. He's all over me, unless of course he's glued to some TV show, and even then he wants me to sit with him (in the same chair) and watch it.
On weekends, it's not so bad. All he really wants to know is that I'll be around, just in case. Once he establishes that, he goes on about his business.
Nathaniel will be ten in a month. He has a lot of questions about life, the world, and how he fits in. Wayne is very patient with him and has made a big difference by being there. But Nate wants my viewpoint too — he thinks I'm brilliant.
He just hasn't learned how to save up his concerns and schedule a time for discussion when I'm around. He wants to know as things come up.
I wonder how much time is left for me to be so special to him. I hear kids don't want parents around during their teen year.
CHAPTER 4
A MOTHER'S TOUCH
The Macon Telegraph
February 11, 1990
Last Sunday, my ten-year-old son, Nathaniel, competed in his first gymnastics meet. His team left Macon at 5:45 a.m. for the meet in Atlanta, about ninety miles up the highway. That meant we had to get up a lot earlier to make the twenty-five-mile drive from our home in Roberta to where his team gathered for the trip.
I drove up to Atlanta later that afternoon, arriving just before his session was to start. I was a little concerned about his energy level but didn't get a chance to talk with him.
He looked good. His performance was great for a first-time competitor — not award-winning, but nothing to be ashamed of either. He didn't seem nervous at all.
Between events, Nate occasionally put his head down on his knee for a quick rest. He looked a little tired but rose to the occasion each time his turn came.
After the last event, he came over to where I waited and whispered that he didn't feel well. He wanted to go lie down in the car. By the time we got there — out of sight of the coach and the other gymnasts — tears were rolling down Nathaniel's cheeks.
He curled up on the back seat and started moaning. He said his head had been hurting really badly since the meet first started. You'd never have known it by watching him.
I gave him some Tylenol, and within minutes he was sound asleep. Not wanting to disturb his much-needed rest, I made the long drive home in silence.
That gave me a lot of time to think about how different he is with me than with anyone else. I had noticed it before but never had so much time to really reflect on it.
Most kids behave differently when they're away from their moms and dads. The parents of some of Nate's friends and I often joke about swapping children. They brag about how polite and well-behaved he is at their houses and are usually surprised to find their sons are the same way at mine.
From my educator days, I know it can also be just the opposite. I've talked to many parents over the years who couldn't believe their kids would ever sass a teacher or get into a fight or skip school.
But the difference I'm referring to is even deeper. It has something to do with the special bond between children and their moms.
When I'm not around, and Nathaniel gets hurt or feels bad, he rarely cries. In fact, he usually doesn't even mention his pain to anyone else, including my husband, his stepfather — who is very close to him — or his dad, unless it's really serious. Even then, he still doesn't completely let go.
But with me, he just surrenders himself. It's like he has no need to be tough.
There are not many places where any of us feel so safe we can be totally expressive. We know our moms will love us no matter how pitiful or ornery we are. We don't have to look good or hide our feelings with our mothers.
And for some of us, when we're sick, nobody in the world can take better care of us than our moms.
It's a phenomenon that doesn't necessarily change with age.
When I woke up in a hospital emergency room after a terrible car wreck at the age of twenty-nine, all I wanted was my mama. I knew she would make things all right. I wanted somebody to care how badly I really hurt.
She and my dad were traveling in Florida and had to be tracked down with help from state troopers (long before the advent of cell phones). They dropped everything to come to my bedside.
I'll never forget the relief and sense of security I felt the minute they both walked into my hospital room. Everything lifted, and I knew I was safe again.
Being on both sides has made me appreciate my mom even more. It's not easy (and most of the time, not convenient) to have another person need you so much and so exclusively. But it is touching.
CHAPTER 5
YOU CAN'T GET TOO MUCH HELP RAISING KIDS
The Macon Telegraph
March 18, 1990
All of a sudden, it seems like everywhere I turn someone is offering advice on parenting. That's good news. I can sure use it.
A couple of weeks ago, a workshop called "Parent to Parent" was held at the elementary school in Roberta, where we live, about twenty-five miles west of Macon. The day-long seminar was designed to help parents deal with and circumvent the drug problem that has gripped so many families.
Our church is sponsoring a six-part film series on families and parenting titled "Turn Your Heart Toward Home." In each segment, the speaker addresses a different aspect of family life.
During his sermon last Sunday, our preacher talked about rekindling the home fires, specifically in our parent-to-children relationships. The message was to spend more time with our kids, pay more attention to them, and be more aware of their needs and concerns.
I'm all for that. In fact, I'm always looking for ways to improve my parenting skills. When I first discovered I was pregnant, I went out and bought all the books I could afford or had the time to read. I talked with my expert sisters and mother and friends. I planned to be the best possible mom and raise the perfect child.
It didn't take long to figure out what an overwhelming task that was. At every stage of my son's life, I've found surprises I wasn't prepared for, something new to watch out for.
When Nathaniel was born ten years ago, I was scared to death. What was I going to do with this tiny miracle? How could I possibly take care of him — keep him healthy and nourished? How was I ever going to impart to him all the knowledge he needed to become a contributing human being?
