Childbirth

Childbirth must be just as an emotional experience for a father as it is for a mother. James and I had four kids in 5 ½ years. We knew we wanted several kids, and I wanted to be able to stay home with them for as long as I could; so we saw no reason for spreading this child birth thing out over too much time. When our oldest daughter was born, James took one look at her and decided right then and there that he wanted ten little girls. He was overcome with instantaneous love and adoration. His mistake came when he informed me of his decision to have 9 more little girls. It was 23 minutes after Kristin was born. I am glad now that he was so taken with his daughter that he could not read the raw emotion that the mere mention of having just one more child brought forth in me, much less enduring the process for 9 more occasions. Timing is everything. The experience of childbirth proved to be quite emotional for my dad as well. My mom was in labor for many hours with their firstborn child. Consequently, when my oldest brother, Cookie, arrived kicking, screaming, rather cone-headed, and a little red-faced, my father took one look at him and got all queasy. He, too, had something to say 23 minutes after the miraculous birth of his first child. Papa assured Bama, the infant’s grandmother, and his mother, that he knew he would be able to clothe the child. He knew he could feed the child and not let it starve. But, he also felt a certain assuredness that he would never, under any circumstances, be able to love that child that was screaming there in the nursery window. Now, please keep in mind that these were the times when no one was allowed in the delivery room. He did not see my mother during active labor. He did not witness the unrelenting hours of pain followed by the instant maternal love which makes any suffering worthwhile. When he finally got to see my mother for the first time after the birth of their first child; he told her that he just could not go through something like this ever again. There was entirely too much stress involved in giving birth to a baby.

My mother grew to love her stays in the hospital. The hospital staff in Navasota called it her yearly vacation. How things in the world of obstetrics have changed! It is a good thing that mom kept all of her receipts from her hospital stays or I might have openly questioned not only the money, but the length of her stays with each birth. When Cookie was born, Mom stayed in the hospital for 3 full weeks. The cost for the hospital, nursery, delivery room, and any other extra expenses for the three week stay was $53.00. She was not to get up out of her bed until there was someone there to help, and then only for a short trek. The nurses brought the swaddled child in once every four hours to eat. The schedule did not, could not, and dared not vary. Children under twelve were not allowed on the maternity floor at that time. At each birth, Papa would line all of us up on the sidewalk outside of the hospital to watch my mom wave at us through her window. The line of waving siblings kept getting longer and longer with each birth. I think that the line of cars that would drive by to see the line of waving kids also got longer and longer. Birthing one of the Swanson’s was a community event in Navasota. The staff delegated Room 104 to be the Mary Grace Swanson room in the maternity ward. Not often was anyone else allowed to use that room. Rarely was it available. When Sallie was born, Mom’s bill had increased and her hospital stay time had decreased. Her vacation with Sallie only lasted 7 days and her bill rose to an astronomical $252.00.

I know that Mom had several things to wonder about each time she headed home from the hospital. Where would this child sleep? When would she herself find time to sleep? Would she get all these names mixed up? Who would go to the store? Who would keep an eye on all the other little ones? What number child was this again? What would the house look like after her latest vacation? Who would be the most excited to see a new sibling? The questions swirling around, I am sure, were endless. However, she would not have to spend as much time getting to know the intimate idiosyncrasies of each child like some parents would have to do. Many traits were already known purely by the order of the child’s birth. This is another strange phenomenon that has seemed to occur only in my family. The legitimacy and strength of this particular Swanson family trait is undeniable. Before the baby could talk, or walk, or even roll over; we all knew the most vital and important facts of its life. I mean the really crucial things. Things like what they liked on their sandwich. If the baby was an odd numbered child, it would like mayonnaise. If it was an even numbered sibling, it would only eat mustard. What kind of candy would it take to make the child quiet and happy? Odd numbered children would eat Milk Duds; even numbered kids preferred Jr. Mints. If you are opening a can of tomato soup for an odd numbered kid, you better have a can of chicken noodle for the even numbered one. The behaviors of each of the odd numbered children were all identical. We were more out-going and boisterous. Our mouths were seldom closed. We acted exclusively on impulse, and thrived on activity and excitement. We worked better under pressure. Our personalities could best be summed up by the motto, “ready, shoot, aim.” Every other sibling in line had the exact opposite traits. The even numbered children were quiet and thoughtful. They needed to have order and planning in their life. They loved to dress nicely and could sit and read, or converse, or ponder for hours. Decisions were difficult to make, for all options needed to be weighed and each consequence assessed. The motto that governed their existence was, “ready, aim…aim…aim…aim, oh, here; one of you odd numbered kids shoot!” Life was a perfect balance of harmony if no one disturbed the dependability of evens and odds. For breakfast there were scrambled eggs, and fried eggs. For peace, an odd sat by an even. For laughs, there was an audience for a comedian. For production, there was a plan for ideas. For secrets, there was always exactly who you needed. Life was odd, but seemed pretty even.

Even with the quirks of the evens and odds, it seems there was still a pretty distinct individuality with each child. Are personalities determined by birth order, by experiences, by locale, by family values, by how long your mother’s vacation in the hospital was? It seems there was plenty of fodder for research in my family alone to be able to efficiently answer this question. Aside from the “even and oddness” that existed, the birth order inarguably played a great factor in the development of who we were. When my older three brothers would leave home, my mom would always call out to them. “Cookie, don’t get into trouble; Hunty, don’t get hurt, and Jimmie, don’t hurt anyone!” The three boy’s personalities were also poignantly clear in the home video of them jumping off of the high diving board at the Navasota city pool. Cookie was Captain America. He posed for the camera, and made sure everyone was watching. Because his two younger brothers were already on the diving board ready for their turn, he gave last minute instructions to them on where to stand and when to go. Once again posing for the camera before his launch from the high dive, he raised his muscle man arms and took off and seemed to be animated all the way to the water. Hunty, the 2nd born, was next. Slowly, agonizingly, cautiously he crept to the end of the board. He checked to see where his brother had landed. He calculated the length of time he would be in the air before hitting the water. He counted his steps back and forth from the ladder to the end of the board realizing as the line of people waiting to dive got longer and longer that there was no way down but off the end of the board and into the water. Again, he took his stance by the ladder. He warily took himself closer and closer to the end of the board determined that he could make himself jump this time. He held his nose and kept walking right off the diving board. Before he hit the water, Jimmie had launched himself cannonball style right over Hunty hitting the water before his older brother did. These same personalities were seemingly repeated again, along with the personalities of the 4th and 5th children as the last five little ones came along. Once again, mom did not have to wonder about who she was bringing home from the hospital. Birth order. There is something to be said for its influence.

After having four kids of my own, I have learned that much advice is dispensed on the whole event of childbirth. Everyone has a different story of what would, could or should occur both during birth and during the raising of the perfect child. Personally, I was pretty sure I knew it all and did not need everyone else’s advice. I was number 7. Seven is an odd number. As I look back now, I realize that my mom was pregnant for 100 months. Although she did not offer advice unless she was specifically asked, any guidance given by my mom should have been listened to. As I was steadfast in my belief of the natural childbirth method, I remember now that I did hear her offer a tidbit for me to consider. “Lucy, as far as childbirth goes, let me just say that I have had a child every way there is to have one. Take all they offer to give you!” Then there were those things that she didn’t say but as I look back I see that they were spoken in volumes. “Yes, I know that you are an odd numbered child and you will like certain things.” “Yes, I understand that you are the oldest and you need to have someone to lead.” “Yes, I know that you will need to share your room with one more person and at times it might make you feel lost.” “Yes, I understand that you love your brother or sister more than anything, but just needed to yell.” “Yes, I can forget the cleaning and cooking and read you a story.” All those “yeses” helped each one of us from childbirth on to know without a single doubt the most important part of raising a child. Without her ever saying a word, you could always hear loud and clear from her actions that “ yes, you are my child, and you are my favorite.”