Dearest Christopher,
While spending some time with your older sister Helen recently, she reminded me of a story I had not thought of in a long time. It is just one more thing demonstrating how far you, and really, all of us, have come.
It was springtime in Texas, and bluebonnets fragranced the evening as Dad and I walked to choir. Hadassah, our friend, neighbor, and nanny, was babysitting you kids while we practiced for our church’s Easter concert.
I love spring in Texas. It comes out in full strength with beauty, color, and fragrance—things that aren’t always so common in Texas. We don’t get the fall colors. We certainly don’t get much snow. But a lake of blue decorating the fields of our farm felt like a promise.
I was seven months pregnant with your younger brother Nicolas, and singing wasn’t quite as effortless as it is at times. About halfway through choir practice, I began to feel miserable with gallbladder pain, a common pregnancy complaint. The pressure was building to the point that I felt I needed to go home.
Dad was down near the microphones, and I was in the choir loft, so I lumbered my way down to him.
“I think I’m going to get a ride home,” I told him.
But just as I was preparing to leave, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a message from Hadassah asking me to please come home immediately because Christopher had filled his eyes with dirt.
What in the world?
I asked Aunt Hannah if she could give me a ride, since we’d walked to choir, and we hurried down to the house. She dropped me off at the gate and headed back.
By now it was dark, and the crickets were chirping. I rushed into the house, for the moment forgetting the gallbladder pain, to find you frantically screaming and trying to pull away from your big sister Helen and Hadassah.
I grabbed you, pinned you to myself, and tipped back your chin.
I had never seen anything like it. Your eyes were filled with dirt, as though you had deliberately packed it into them.
I swooped you up onto the counter, and all three of us had to hold you down while I poured water into your eyes, trying to wash the dirt out. I tried to use a gentle tone, but your screams grew louder by the second. The good news was that the dirt was coming out.
The bad news was that one of your kicking legs suddenly thrashed into the dish rack, knocking it sideways on the counter. Several dishes rolled out, including a glass, which hit the tile floor and shattered.
Eighteen-month-old Carri Beth toddled around my skirts, pointing at you and questioning, “He crying? He crying?”
But it was all we could do to manage you. I was soaked with water. Mud was everywhere. Dishes and broken glass covered the floor.
“Keep her out of the glass,” I said to eleven-year-old Blair.
Just then, Carri Beth swooped down and tried to helpfully grab a piece. Too late.
Her screams split the air, piercing through the rest of the ruckus. She had sliced her index finger wide open, nearly taking off the tip.
“Oh God,” I said. “Now what do we do?”
But the dirt was almost out of your eyes.
“Helen, grab a rag and wrap it around her hand and squeeze,” I said, pinching my phone between my ear and shoulder as I called our doctor at the clinic.
“Please bring her right in,” he said.
I told him about your eyes too, and he assured me that if we had washed all the dirt out, you were going to be okay.
By then, you were looking good. Even you seemed to realize that the crisis was ending, and your cries had subsided. Hadassah volunteered to pull your pajamas on and read you a story so I could get Carri Beth to the clinic.
I took Helen with me, and when we arrived, Dr. Mark took Carri Beth. For whatever reason, she wasn’t terribly receptive to the numbing medicine, and so she screamed for every stitch. But Mark was gentle and playful and somehow managed to put everyone at ease.
At last, her hand was stitched and bandaged. I lifted her onto my shoulders, her little legs straddling my very pregnant belly, and patted her head. Her sobs dissipated into whimpers, and finally she fell asleep.
As we walked out the door of the clinic, Mark put a hand on my shoulder and then on Helen’s.
“How’s Mommy and big sister? Are y’all going to be okay?”
“We’ll be just fine,” I said.
But when I looked over at Helen, she looked as though she was about to both cry and vomit.
By the time we came home, you were asleep, and I tucked Carri Beth into bed. The gallbladder attack must have been frightened away by all the commotion, because it had eased to a dull ache as I climbed into a warm bath.
Just another day with a house full of children and being a mom.
We’ve all come a long way, Christopher, not just you. You’ve learned to live in a world that’s rather overwhelming at times—and not just to you!
With all my love,
Mom
