The Phone Call

Very rough version of what will be my first chapter

My entire life led up to the moment I started down the path to motherhood and announced it to my world.   As a little girl, I knew the thing I wanted most was to be a mom.  I daydreamed about playing with my children, braiding my future daughter’s hair, going on shopping trips, caring for and feeding  the little people I pictured in my head.  Never once did I consider the fact that I might follow a different path.   I somehow saw myself as I am now:  a loving mother of precious children, but what I didn’t realize at that time was that I wasn’t seeing the whole picture.  I didn’t know that there are things you can be told but can never fully understand until you experience them yourself.  I had no idea that the dream I was to carry throughout the early part of my life would indeed come true, but that it would come to me with an edge.  Nothing is easy and simple.  Life is a rich tapestry with an eternity of complex hues, sometimes blending and complimenting sometimes contrasting.  Motherhood is most certainly part of this work of art but for me, discovering this seemingly obvious and theoretically beautiful concept jolted me out of my comfort zone and I found myself, 5 years into my journey as a mother, searching for clarity.

By the age of 10 I had a solid family picture formed.  I wanted 4 children.  No more, no less  and if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that  I was not remotely interested in entertaining the idea of having an ONLY CHILD (cue the scary organ music).   Growing up as one of 7 children, I just could not imagine how lonely the life of an “only” would be.  I loved growing up as a member of our motley crew of 4 girls and 3 boys, ages spanning only 10 years from my oldest sister to my youngest brother.  Although we all had good school friends, there was almost no need for any because there was always someone to hang out with at home…as long as we weren’t busy pushing each other down the stairs or throwing baseball bats at one another (true story).   For the most part we all got along and it’s safe to say that each of us found it fairly easy to find a playmate among the group if we wanted to.

Our house was “the place to be” for many kids in our town and on any given day you could show up unannounced to join in on a game of whiffle ball, kickball, basketball or football.  In fact, anyone from our childhood could attest to the fact that flashlight tag nights at our house were the stuff of small town legend.  On a good night, 30 kids ranging in ages from 7-15 could be found hiding or making out in bushes and running after each other in the dark, laughing hysterically until it was time to go home.  We had an annual Thanksgiving “Bowl Game” in which my brothers and their hunky friends would get together to impress the ladies with their football skills and ability to laugh at themselves and each other.

My big sisters  taught me everything I needed to know about life:  friends, kissing, boyfriends, shaving, how to mask alcohol breath while slipping in after curfew…you know, the important stuff….there was a book that was handed down to all the sisters that presumably started with my Mom although I’ve never been quite sure of its origin.  All I know is that there came a day in which my sister, the one just older than me, came quietly to my room with the book, placed it on my lap advising me to look it over and let her know if I had any questions.  I’ll never forget:  it had a blue cover on it, with the word “Period” written in white bubble letters and a big, round, red circle at the end of the word.  There was also a simply drawn outline of girl under the title with 2 bug bite sized bumps on her chest.   I remember looking at the girl and the big red period and getting a sinking feeling that big important changes lay ahead for me.   It was an exciting moment and I took it very seriously.

My brothers were my ever grounded, no-nonsense influences.  Although their tempers tended to a bit more hot than us sisters, there was in general a lot less fuss and drama surrounding them.   They gave my parents plenty to worry about with the occasional unexplained, unplanned all-nighter with a girlfriend, midnight police escorts home and bags of pot discovered on the floor of our old minivan.  These things gave them just enough of an edge to be considered “cool” in the eyes of their classmates but for the most part they were good kids who steered clear of serious trouble.  Good students, nice people, great brothers….

So, having an only child seemed, to me, to be the ultimate punishment and besides that I didn’t see the point.  If you were going to have 1 kid, why wouldn’t you just go ahead and have another…2 kids seemed unfair too though because, what if they didn’t like each other?  They’d be completely stuck with seeking comfort, advice and companionship with someone they were less than thrilled with.  This option seemed, if I thought too much about it, even worse than condemning someone to life as an “only”.  3 was a little better but I couldn’t stop feeling sorry for the middle child…always stuck, never really knowing for sure who’s side to take.  Feeling too old to be hanging out with their younger sibling but never quite fitting in with the older one.  So, 4 kids seemed to be the best scenario.   I wasn’t interested in having 7 kids like my parents did.  I mean, that seemed completely crazy to me.  4 was much more sensible and completely doable.  The challenge then became finding the person with whom to have all of these babies.  At this point, I would like to remind you that I had this all figured out when I was 10 years old.

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“Hi Mom!  It’s me, Rami"how are you?”   Some people might take offense at having to identify themselves to their own mother over the phone.  To be sure, I used to indignantly remind her that it was ONLY her 6^th CHILD she was speaking to but as I’ve gotten older I’ve come to understand and sympathize.  We do sound very much alike after all and damn, there are a lot of us to keep track of.

“Ramona!  So nice to hear your voice, honey.  How are you?  What’s new?”  My mom’s voice was exactly what I wanted to be hearing in that moment.  The gentle cadence and warm tone had been a powerful source of serenity throughout many stages of my life.  When I was very young, I used to curl up by her feet while she chatted on the phone with friends just to listen to her talk.  I wasn’t interested in what was being said, only how she said it all…

Trying to act casual, I updated her about work and life in the big city.  I had moved to New York City 5 years earlier and was working as a dresser on Broadway.  6 out of 7 days out of the week I was lucky enough to help maintain beautiful costumes and assist actors into and out of (sometimes very, very quickly) said costumes.  The job was the perfect mix of gut busting fun and extreme pressure (mine as much as my coworkers) and I had come to think of the 250 people I worked with as my second family (as if my first one wasn’t big enough).   Other than motherhood, theatre had been my only other “dream job” and after a few years of pounding the pavement had lucked my way onto a Broadway stage at the right moment and stumbled into a job on a long running show.  My family was proud of me, I was proud of me and so I loved talking about work with my family.  It was especially gratifying to talk with my mom about work because she had been so worried about me moving to New York.  I was always glad to have the opportunity to show her how happy and secure I was there.

“Oh, not much…the usual: busy at work, enjoying the spring weather….you know, nothing special.  Oh except that I’m  PREGNANT!”

“You’re WHAT?!  You’re kidding!  Oh that’s wonderful news!!"I’m so happy for you.  How are you feeling?”

My mom, a self-described “Born Mother” knew how exciting this moment was for me.  Not only because it’s exciting for many mothers-to-be but because she knew how long I had felt sure of my place in this world as a nurturer and care provider.  I’d spoken many times in great depth and passion with her about my ultimate dream to be a mom and how I’d respected my husband’s wishes to plan our family carefully and to not rush into the next stage.  

My husband and I balance each other out well, as many couples do.  I’ve always enjoyed being spontaneous while Sam is the ultimate “planner”.  We drive each other crazy sometimes, but in the long run when we are able to figure out how to meet at a place in the middle we both gain something.  When we got married, our collective debt was breathtakingly mountainous.  We had agreed (well, I agreed to his logical, responsible plan) to pay off our debt completely before trying to start our family.  I knew Sam was right and the plan was strong, but over the next 5 years of chipping away at the mountain we had found ourselves buried under, I must have tried to change his mind and inspire him to be more spontaneous about our kid plan at least 1500 times.  Each time, I was heartbroken, sad and disappointed to find that he was holding firm.  Honestly, at times I questioned his desire to have a family at all but when I confronted him about these suspicions he would gently remind me of our shared dreams.  We had talked in length many times about how much we both wanted children, he was just very  disciplined.  We wanted to start our parenting journey off with a clean slate money wise.  I wanted that as much as he did, but I found it difficult to be patient…something I struggle with often still.

After catching my mom up on details, I began the chain of phone calls required whenever a big event occurs in my life.  Not only do I have my parents to call (2 separate phone calls since they are divorced), but all 6 siblings and Sam’s side of the family as well (2 parents, still together and 1 sister).   About halfway through the barrage of phone calls, I started to feel a little tired as it dawned on me that after the phone calls were completed, our work wasn’t done.   I had those 250 people in my adopted second family to tell as well, along with a slew of friends in the city.

 I don’t really like to be the center of attention.  I don’t like to be fussed over and embarrass easily.  Some of my earliest memories center around feeling embarrassed.  I have a vague memory of my 3rd birthday party:  sitting in a very high chair at our kitchen table with a big sugary cake in front of me that was asking and waiting to be devoured.  Everyone in the room was singing “Happy Birthday” and suddenly, mid-song I pushed myself away from table and started to get out of my chair.  As the song faded out awkwardly and the other people in the room were helping me get down, they were peppering me with questions: “Where ya going??  You okay?  We didn’t finish the song!  Don’t you want to blow out the candles??”  I remember feeling overwhelmed by the attention and leaving the room was my only option in that moment.  Of course, my 3 year old self couldn’t articulate all of that but I casually said “Just goin’ for a walk!” and left the kitchen alone, leaving a room of perplexed grown-ups and older siblings in my wake.  I walked down to the end of the hallway next to our kitchen, touched the front door and headed back.  I climbed back into my chair, renewed and felt ready to continue with the celebration.

I clearly remember that birthday party because I still get the  same feeling often.  I realized this moment I’ve waited for my entire life, the “I’m PREGNANT!!” announcement and excitement surrounding it all could quite possibly be very, very uncomfortable for a long time.  It takes 9 months a lot longer to pass than singing a verse of “Happy Birthday” does and I lived in New York City…a city I loved living in but that didn’t have much to offer in the line of personal space.  I was going to have to find my hallway, my quick recharge, my temporary escape plan before I told another soul.  Unfortunately at that point in my life I was, like my 3 year old self, unable to articulate this realization but unlike my 3 year old self, I’d now had 29 years of life under my belt, many of which were spent working in theatre.  In other words, my 29 year old self was just a smidge more jaded and bitter that my 3 year old self.    I had my first pinch of worry that my dream come true was not going to be filled with cotton candy and kittens.  Actually, even if it was, I had to admit that eating too much cotton candy makes your stomach ache and kittens have very sharp claws and teeth. …which made me suddenly want to lie down and take a really long nap.

Author's Note

I am a beginner! I'd love feedback but please keep in mind that I know I have a long way to go--this chapter is by no means finished in my eyes and I'm still working on it, but I'm looking for some general opinion about where I stand here at this beginning stage.