It's a(nother) BOY!

I very much disliked being at church today. From the trite responses to the sympathetic looks about our news of our 6^th boy on the way, to how I felt like I had to justify our decision to be done to some and defend our decision to continue having kids to this point to others, I rapidly grew exhausted of the game. I didn’t feel freedom to be completely honest with anyone I encountered today, and that fact alone makes church so hard. When I feel like I have to wear a mask around our church family, there’s just something that seems wrong about that. Family should equate to authenticity. Unfortunately, many times heavier masks are worn in the church setting than anywhere outside of it. And we continue to suffer in silence. If you grieve, you’re not trusting God or being joyful, right?

So, I’ve started wondering, what would it look like to take mine off: to decide that I’m rooted enough in who I am in Christ and in where he has led us in our decisions that it doesn’t matter the response we get, to be willing to answer honestly when I’m asked about disappointment with another boy, to take the time to explain the journey Christ has my heart on now, and if the tears come, allow them to willingly. What I’ve always thought as strength – holding it all together – is really just fear of man. Choosing rather to be who I am, where I am, dealing with what I am and being willing to share that no matter the outcome – that is true strength.

From the moment we found out we were pregnant again, I had a gut feeling that we were having another boy. That first day, when we saw the positive test, we easily agreed on his name: Nathaniel Benjamin – Treasured gift of God, son of my right hand. I joked with friends early on that we were probably having another boy – that’s our trend, right? Why change a good thing? I reasoned that I would deal with strong emotions either way – another boy would be easier. I had everything I needed. I wouldn’t need to re-learn to parent. And having a girl brought up certain concerns as well – namely her safety as she grew up in this crazy world. Yes, a boy would just be simpler. But my heart still leaked longing for some pink in my house, some bows, some frills, some glitter – something other than sheer male energy, dirt, bugs, sports, wrestling, “bad-guys”, and things constantly randomly getting broken. Don’t get me wrong. I love all of those things (well, minus things getting broken). I love my sons with all of my heart, but a piece of me still longed for that girl – to be able to share just a piece of my feminine side and have it innately understood and appreciated.

Twenty weeks came, and with it our ultrasound. We didn’t get a clear picture of parts, but the tech thought she saw boy parts. I took this as a definite maybe and began to process the news. But since we weren’t 100% convinced, we did a blood test to verify her assumption. The results came back on Thursday – 100% boy!

I am so excited that we are adding Nathaniel to our family. I’m thrilled that I won’t have to buy anything extra, that we won’t wind up with a double amount of toys in the house, that we are familiar with having sons, that we can look forward to many challenging adventures in the days to come, that Jeshua will have a male playmate close in age. But that’s where it gets complicated – we’ve been seeking God about our family size. We’ve been seeking wisdom. We’ve emptied ourselves of our own desires and asked God what his desire is for our family. After much prayer and conversation, we’ve determined that this is our number: six boys to raise for the glory of God. We long to be faithful with what he has blessed us with, and we feel like God has other ministry opportunities on the horizon for our family. With that in mind, six young men to change the world is God’s best for us. So that means this is it. This is the end of that subtle longing for a girl. I’m closing the door on this chapter. People ask if I’d like to try again, and in all honesty, my answer is no. I don’t feel God calling us to that. Not to mention, we very well might have another boy anyway if we did try.

We’ve never “tried” for a girl. We’ve had this many kids because we felt like God was leading us to have this many. And obviously, he wanted us to have six sons. I’m okay with that. Yet, this is where my joy turns bittersweet. The tears well up, fill my eyes and spill over as I consider things I will never get to enjoy with a biological daughter.

I grieve over never having the opportunity to look in my child’s eyes and see a tangible piece of myself. (Everyone claims all the boys look like Jared.) I grieve over the thought of missed tea parties, princess parties, and playing house with dolls. I grieve over never having the opportunity to teach a daughter about modesty, being a lady, shaving, periods, never getting the opportunity to go wedding dress shopping with a girl. I grieve not being able to welcome my daughter into the role of motherhood herself, over not having a kindred spirit to share our hearts over coffee or tea, over missing out on girly shopping in general. I grieve over not having chick flick nights. I grieve over not having hair to braid or teach about the deeper beauty that resides on the inside. I grieve over lost sparkles, frills, and twirling. I grieve over not having a daughter to share my heirlooms with – dolls and treasures. I grieve over hopes built up over years, clothes thoughtfully chosen “just in case.” I grieve over not being able to share my name or my grandmother’s name with a child. I grieve over hopes and dreams that are being washed away as the tears wash down my cheeks.

Out of all of this, I’ve realized that it’s really okay to feel this way. It doesn’t mean that I love my son any less. My tears don’t show some underlying weakness. And even if I hid it all, pushed it away, lived in logic and told myself to be okay, God wouldn’t be tricked by my mask or façade. He sees and knows my heart and my very deepest longings – he’s the one who put them there in the first place. He cares that my heart is breaking. He cares that I feel there’s a hole that will never be filled. He takes my tears and places them in a bottle (Psalm 56:8). The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). There is a time for grief (Ecclesiastes 3:4). And now is that time for me. But I can also be encouraged by the fact that weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5).

In the meantime, friends, if you see tears in my eyes when I talk about my son, give me grace. If you see me swallow hard when I see a pretty girly dress, a little girl twirling, or a princess tea party, just know that it hurts a little. If I hesitate when you ask if I’m disappointed, just know that there’s so much more to the story. And if I cry, just give me a hug. I’ll be okay. I know God’s got this. I trust him. And in the meantime, I will continue to pour out my heart to him – God is my refuge (Psalm 62:8). 

The Birthing of a Man

Wet, warm, slimy babe in your arms, new from the world of wombs. Only God could have planned this moment. Skin to skin, breathing in new life, new joy, hopes and dreams for both today and tomorrow. Pull the wobbly, too heavy, head up for a kiss and feel the warmth of new blood rushing, oxygenated now by something other than you. Your role is a little less crucial than it was yesterday. But you don’t feel that right now, you just bask in the new mommy, joy moment. And do, for it passes too quickly. All of life is letting go. 

 The way he ripped through your body, the burning pain with the tightenings and the forceful entry into the world – that’s the way he’ll rip through your life as he strives to be birthed into a man. Many painful contractions of love, breathe, readjust, try to cope in the moment – if you look at the whole, it’s overwhelming. Then a break, a breather, a moment of reprieve, and you still feel the tiny pushes from within. 

The transition hits and you don’t know where to go. You try to catch your breath, but it seems elusive. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” And that’s what it feels like, the ends of the world caving in and pulling you apart at the same moment. You’ve been stretched, stretched to where your body can handle, but it’s still try to stretch a little more. Tears, groans, and gasps. They all come. Did you picture it this way? Did you know the pain of birthing a man?

Pushing brings a little relief, but adds with it a stinging sensation you may have never known. At least you and your body are working together now. In a moment you want to hold back, hold back from the burning, but holding back hurts all the worse and you give in to the urges of your body. God knows best. For if a child remained inside forever, he would never be a man, and he would wind up eating you alive. The ring of fire, appropriately named, as your skin stretches and sometimes breaks open at the sheer force of his head, and in one gigantic effort, it emerges. A moment, or maybe two, and you bear down again unable to hold back any more. He twists and turns and struggles his shoulders out, and in one swift motion, he slides into the waiting hands. He’s born.

That first breath brings air to parts of his lungs that have never experienced air before. He wiggles and screeches. No longer safe in the darkness of your womb, but now exposed to the light. Breathing now depends on him. Life, depends on him; his body has been preparing for this moment. Your body has been preparing for this moment. They clamp the cord – his former life source – and within ten days, the evidence of such will also fall away. 

But now that he’s here, you don’t remember the birth pangs, they are the former thing and are no more for you are overwhelmed at the joy of who is here now. 

For when your son becomes a man, it is then that you truly become a momma!

Hannah Norton 2014

 

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