Introducing ChefEvelynBirdieDot

One week ago tonight my life changed forever.  Of course, each moment we live inherently changes all moments that follow, but there are precious moments when the veil is thin and you catch a breathtaking glimpse of something so beautiful—that was Monday, July 31.  

My precious baby, my oldest, whom I will fight for and fight with all in the same day, gave birth.  She birthed.  It was not one moment, it was over the past several weeks of twinges and discomfort and anticipation and wondering and worrying.  She set parameters on how she wanted the final stages of birthing to go, and I could not be prouder.  I learned all over again knowledge is power.  She learned, she knew, she planned, she adapted, she asked, she required, and she acquiesced.  She was a fierce warrior woman bearing inconceivable pain and fighting through it all to bring new life.  She is awe-inspiring.  

In those quiet moments before the staff started hustling and equipment was brought in, huddling around her with her husband and her phenomenal doula, there was a kinship.  Not with birthing women, but with every woman who has gathered around a laboring woman, anticipating, encouraging, breathing, praying. She says when she was pushing through the contractions, she felt the presence of all the women before her who have given birth.  When I heard her low humming groan with each contraction, almost musical, I sensed a connection there.  The sound of pain and exhilaration emitting in a low pitched even tone.  And then—

His arrival was miraculous.  For many reasons.  Not the least of which is that, as my Mama always said, every child is precious.  Every child deserves to have eyes light up when they come into the room.  

And light up they did—from staff to family who were anxiously and happily awaiting his arrival—all eyes lit up when they saw that precious baby. The lights were low, but he fairly glowed, as did his parents.  Their lives broadened, expanded, with new roles, new names, and a new reason to hold tight to joy and light.  

In that moment when he arrived, the result of his fierce Mama pushing through and his precious Papa leaning in and a wise doula breathing peace into a tired world, I became more. My heart expanded to embrace this date on the calendar that has flown by 50 some odd times without having this precious meaning.  My mind remembered my own first child, this one now holding her sweet baby, and the night she was born and how my parents were right there, and I wept.  In that moment I joined a league of privileged and very wonderful women, those who have gone before me, paving the way with light, love, laughter, and sheer willpower. I was loved and treasured by women who were strong and genteel and knew how to be both at the very same moment.  I was taught by aunts and great aunts and grandmothers and other mothers who poured into me, praying for the very days I am living now.  I was seen and loved and prayed for by women I have never even met.  The little elderly ladies who came to see Mama after I was born, the ladies from my Granny’s church, the friends of my parents—all gone but not forgotten.  In the moment that this precious boy breathed his first breath, life changed and I felt their presence.  The connection. Prayers upon prayers through the ages, breathed and whispered and written and shouted to the stars.  All together in this one moment. 

People have asked me since we found out about his impending arrival what I’m going to be called.  

Called—I love that idea.  That little Baby Burrito, as he was dubbed for most of the pregnancy, will be calling ME something.  And I think of my Mama’s words, “I don’t care what they call me as long as they call me.”  Amen, Mama.  

I have a lot to live up to.  Great Aunt Hattie made us feel loved by sending packages on birthdays, holidays, and sometimes other days.  She’d send presents wrapped in so much wrapping paper and tape, it made it hard to sneak a peek.  It wasn’t what was in the boxes that I remember the most though.  It was seeing my name in her handwriting.  She was thinking of me, of each one of us, and that was the greatest gift.  Just as she was the time she rode a Greyhound Bus all the way from Miami and back just to see us. My Great Great Aunt Maye who never had children let us play with her lipstick (and she had a lot), never telling us there were any off limits.  She kept Fruit Stripe gum just for our visits and treated us to glass bottle Cokes in the kitchen, just because it was Friday, before we headed “back into the house.” My Granny kept biscuits and butter on the counter, cups of homemade peach ice cream in the freezer, taught me how to slurp okra, and played Hangman with me.  She knew how to make a good-sleeping pallet on the floor and taught me that if we don’t know what something means, we shouldn’t repeat it, no matter how cool it sounds and even if it is Fonzie saying “Aayyyyyy.” She had the cold room, later on dubbed the pretty room, filled with homemade candy at the holidays, and she loved a good sit and visit afternoon.  She reminded us often to “Be particular,” something I’m still working on.  My Great Aunt Eloise (Wease) taught me that you’re never too old to change when she let my son play in the formal living room that had always been off limits to me as a child.  I learned that pretending is a great game and tradition to keep going for a lifetime, and that sometimes love is pretending to dislike a particular yellow cartoon bird, so that great fun could be had in hiding him around her house for her to find.  My sweet friend Melissa whose gentle laughter was like music taught me that joy filled laughter could soothe even the tensest of moments.  She loved Vera bags, matching wrapping paper to her Christmas tree decor, and finding the perfect gifts for people.  She loved Halloween and making it fun for others. Anytime with her was a party of the best kind, and she made sure you knew you were loved.  Before all of these dear women were my Great Grandmama who was small but mighty and poured love and prayers into my Daddy, and my Grandma Eulala whom I never met, but who had beautiful red hair and taught my Mama how to truly love.  And to cook really really well.  And before them…..

I owe a debt of gratitude to the strong women on whose shoulders I now stand with the new role of loving the baby of my baby.  The privilege. The honor. The precious gift that is.  

As they build their new family, I treasure watching and praying for them.  I dream of the future and wonder what that will be like for this sweet baby boy, now a brilliant one week old who is the strong but silent type who adores his parents and has yet to realize how much fun awaits him with his furbuddies, friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.  

Tonight I’m thankful and humbled at the privilege this part of my story brings.  To be the mother of a mother.  My heart is full.  

As for what he will call me, there’s a story behind that.  But I look forward to the day he will call me.  And then we’ll know for sure.  When that day comes. 

Until then, I remain, 

ChefEvelynBirdieDot

Love to all.