The Story of Josephine

Recently, I saw a Twitter/X post about the before-and-after life-changing moments so many of us have in our lives, those moments that divide our time here so decisively into clear parts and sections. It made me think about my own life story in a different way, contemplating the placement of Act dividers and Chapter headings. What major dividing events drove one part of my story into the next? What would the chapters be called? Would I share them in a linear fashion, or in more of a thematic style dependent on the events of the day? And what if I began to share those moments here, perhaps as fictionalized true story chapters of my life?

My oldest daughter is not my first child. My motherhood journey began with the heartbreak of a miscarriage, and there is a very quiet, mournful place held in my heart for that lost child and who he or she might have been. But my oldest daughter is the first of my children to kick in my womb, the first to make me pee my pants at Walmart, the first to take a breath and issue a blissfully blessed scream of energetic existence into the chaos of a Tennessee operating room. For every moment of every day since then, I've been some version of Mom (Mama, Mommy, Mother!, Bruh...), making dinners, cleaning messes, soothing booboos and always, always, offering the best guidance I could muster with the knowledge and resources available.

She turned 21 yesterday. For the last 21 years, I've made a point of telling my daughter the story of my last pre-mom day, because I wanted her to know that her entry to the world and her existence in it matters. But her birth story is one of the most meaningful turning points in my life too, so if I were to share a chapter of my life here, I think timing and significance make that day the best place to start. 

The day began much the same as they all did, with nausea and soreness. Everything hurt. My back, my swollen legs. My ribs, so strained by constant bouts of sickness. My chest burned like a gaping pool of acid, and as I stumbled out of bed I thought of the people who promised—always with an amused smile—that, "heartburn means the baby will have hair!" I would've been fine with a bald baby, if only I could eat a meal and keep it down.

Nagging worry turned to outright fear as the morning passed, and I poked my rounded belly now and then with increasing determination. The baby hadn't moved at all. I called the doctor, made an appointment, went in to be checked, and was assured that all was well.

"She doesn't have as much room these days," the nurses said gently. "Between you being small and her being tall...plus she's breech...there's just no room in there. She's slowing down, resting up. One more week to go." The nurses met my troubled eyes, nodding patiently. They took the monitors away, folded the elastic bands, threw away the electrodes. "Go on home and get some rest. Put your feet up."

Outside the hospital, the sun was falling toward the horizon; daylight was fading, shadows were lengthening, temperatures began their nightly freefall. I sat in my car, debating. Home to rest? Or Walmart for a Hot Pocket? Walmart won.

In the store I browsed the freezer section, one hand propped idly on my still-quiet belly, my discreetly repurposed fast-food-drink-cup-to-stealth-barf-bucket propped beside my purse in the seat where one day soon, I hoped a living child would fidget and whine. I settled for cheesy chicken and broccoli, thinking of warmth as I added my meal to my cart.

I'll never remember how or why I ended up in the back of the store. I've always been lactose-intolerant and had long since given up trying to drink milk, but somehow there I was, staring into the milk cooler. With a nostalgic smile for the long-ago days when a cold glass of milk could fix everything, I closed the cooler and turned away. She was standing there, watching me. A large woman in every sense; she was tall and built like a linebacker, with a giant fluff of wild brown curls. Brown eyes peered out over the collar of a puffy brown Mayfield Dairy jacket, a strange mix of suspicious and friendly. She asked about the baby.

"Well, she's been still today," I said ruefully, poking the belly again. "I haven't felt her move at all. The hospital checked her out though, said she's okay. I'm supposed to go home and rest, but..." Gesturing toward the box of Hot Pockets, I shrugged. "Dinner."

The woman shocked me with a bark of laughter—just as big as she was, just as wild as her curly hair. "Honey," she said, her voice filled with energy and southern twang, "they're wrong. Don't you go home; you stay here and wander a while. Walk around; it'll help. You're havin' that baby tonight."

Dismissing the woman's words as the insane ramblings of an old meddler, I smiled and nodded as I lied and promised to walk, then proceeded to the checkout. "Crazy old busybody," I muttered, poking the belly again. The baby didn't answer.

At home I heated both Hot Pockets, choked one down, and threw the other in the garbage with a grimace, cursing myself for not checking the ingredients. "Should've known there'd be onions in there. Damn. Like five dollars, too!" I went to bed still hungry, still frustrated. Still worried over my still-motionless baby.

The baby stayed quiet, but the onions didn't. I barely made it to the bathroom before the Hot Pocket launched itself from my stomach, burning the back of my throat, lingering onion acrid on my tongue. The spasms in my stomach were strong enough to set off shock waves in my bladder; each new gasping retch from above met with intermittent gushing from below. Eventually the vomiting stopped...but the gushing didn't.

I threw up so hard I broke my own water. "You've got to be kidding me."

Four hours later I lay on an operating table, my body numb, my wrists and ankles strapped down to prevent movement, my mind racing. What if I died in the surgery and left my child with no mother? What if it took too long, what if we were too late? What if this child didn't make it either? What if she did?

And in the back of my mind, a repeated mantra: "I guess that Mayfield lady was right, after all."

Stretched out the way I was, strapped down and unable to move, I thought of crucifixion. Death and loss and hope swirled in my mind, a stormy maelstrom of disjointed, drug-induced musings that ground to a shocked and instantaneous halt when the doctor quietly said, "Okay, you're gonna feel some pressure now. It's just me putting your uterus back in."

"I'm sorry...What?" I turned my head, trying to see over the surgical shield that blocked my view. "You're doing what? You took it out?"

He laughed. "Well, I had to take it out and sew it up. I assume you want it back, don't you?"

"Well...yeah. Hey, Doc...make sure you put it in straight, okay?"

It wasn't long before I lay propped on piles of pillows, sobbing. My body still ached, but in entirely new ways now, and my heart had never been so broken. She was perfect. Twenty inches long, 8 pounds even. All ten toes, all ten long and clumsy fingers. Blue eyes like gray skies in winter. Narrow lips that puckered like the petals of a rosebud when I tickled them with the barest touch of a fingertip. And a full head of thick, shining black hair.

Josephine's first rainfall was made of the tears I couldn't hold back as I held her. The first prayer she ever heard fell from the lips of an unbeliever, as a young woman who had taken pride in cursing God begged for the patience and strength to be a good mother. "Please, please, help me. Help me to give her more than what I had, to make sure she's loved and protected and safe. Please, God, please, help me."

As time passed, I saw that shining black hair fall away. I saw it grow back in toddlerhood, a fall of glossy ash blonde that darkened strand by strand until my girl entered middle school with hair a brown that's sometimes chestnut and sometimes honey. Through middle school, I watched it tighten and frizz and develop a mind of its own—and my black-haired, blue-eyed infant entered high school with green eyes and a wild head of brown curls more glorious than that Mayfield lady could ever have imagined.

Twenty-one years, and just as many evolutions of personality and style later, I still say the heartburn was worth it.

*****

I've recounted this story for Josephine in various ways for the last twenty-one years, and each year I'm amazed—remembering the past and celebrating milestones like this one shows just how much each outgoing chapter shapes the next. If you’re curious about other chapters I’m writing these days—both in fiction and in life—make sure you check the sidebar for updates. You'll find progress info on my latest book-in-progress, recent releases, and my upcoming publishing schedule! And until next time, I hope as your story unfolds you will always strive to...