Oh, how I have loved babies. I’ve got six growing ones of my own. I adored every second of them when they were little. I loved their smells and smiles and sounds. I loved the way they looked at me and patted my face. I loved to lower my nose onto the top of their fuzzy little heads and breathe deeply. I especially loved them when they were tiny, little bundles, rustling around for their mama. I would snatch them up and feel the way they just felt heavy and solid in my arms. Yet they were so tiny and helpless. I loved to swaddle them up and place them on my chest. I could sleep like that forever. Bathing their sweet little bodies, or wiping milk off their puckered little lips and catching a whiff or their sweet-smelling breath... oh, how I lived for those moments.
But lately, I’ve had moments where an unforeseen stress just washes over me, and I’m left to wonder how I survived so many years caring for babies. Like the changing table in the cramped airplane lavatory. I stared at it for a second today before turning and slowly washing my hands. And I thought of all the times I had wrestled a baby in a setting just like this. I was usually sweaty and stressed. And praying for time to speed up so we could get back on the ground. The anxiety I would feel with each passing moment, feeling like I couldn’t relax for one second as I geared up for the chance that my baby (or babies) would start to fuss, then cry, then scream. I’ve had flights where I’ve been covered in baby vomit, baby poop, or mother’s milk. I’ve pumped in my seat, nursed next to complete strangers, even men, changed diapers on my lap—all while hoping nobody would notice. I’ve held perfectly still for hours while some little one slept on me, grimacing as my legs started to tingle, then my arms, then my back started cramping. Then I’ve shifted rapidly as little arms and legs started flailing around, trying to get comfortable, while I’m praying in rapid-fire fashion for my baby to go back to sleep. Which usually makes me sweat some more. I’ve endured flights where the crying was tortuous, and the soothing was futile. But still I tried to soothe. Hour after hour.
I have struggled on this particular trip to feel comfortable in my own seat. The plane feels cramped and my back has been spasming this week. Are the seats smaller? The leg room reduced? How did I ever, ever hold a baby in a seat like this? How did I ever hold a toddler? I used to look over at other travelers who were watching a movie, napping, reading, snacking—maybe even had their shoes kicked off in relaxed comfort— and I would burn with envy. I would fantasize about flying somewhere, anywhere, nowhere...just all alone in my seat. I dreamed I would have a little bag, nicely, neatly packed with a good book, a nice bottle of water, maybe some earphones. Maybe at some point I could carefully apply chapstick, and calmly get a stick of gum from my little bag. Instead of the large diaper bag that was currently taking up all the space on the floor, and the baby blanket and the bottles of juice, and the books and puppets and toys and snacks...
And now, years later, I’m sitting here alone. I have my little bag. I have a bottle of water. I have a good book to read. And here I am: pondering babies. I’m old enough that my back aches when I sit too long. So, I got up to stretch. And I slid into the lavatory. And I saw the diaper changing table. And it all came flooding back. The stress, the worry, the sweatiness.
I’ll never know how I did it. How anyone does it. But I do know something else. My heart is longing to get home to see those babies. They are big now—ranging from five to eighteen. And I just want to hug them. Nothing could keep me away from them for too long.
I once had a nightmare that I had flown clear across the country without my baby. And I realized I had left my baby home alone. I was frantic to get back. I was practically clawing my way back onto the plane and desperately praying for the time to pass so that I could return home. I was crying anguished tears, and I was in a total panic. I woke up gasping. I was so thankful to realize that I was at home in my own bed. As were all of my kiddos. We were safe. And together.
So I guess that answers my own question. How did I do it? Well, I just couldn’t NOT do it. I was hard-wired to care for those babies. And if that meant smiling an apology to the man in the seat next to me because my baby’s little feet kept kicking out from under the blanket while I nursed her, or sweating in the lavatory while I tried to change a diaper and then hold a wriggling baby in my lap while I used the bathroom myself, well, then, I just found a way. And I’m glad that I didn’t fully acknowledge the stress at the time. Like, now that it’s all over, I can feel it, and I realize how bottled up and stressed out those things made me. But at the time, I just smiled at the little face gazing lovingly at mine. And I thought, “Wow! Motherhood is hard. And sweaty.” And then I wrote in my journal about how very blessed I am. And I prayed every night, thanking my Father in Heaven for these babies. And I constantly thought about how lucky I am to be the one thing I always wanted to be: a mother.
