THE BEST GIFT

The Macon Telegraph

December 16, 1990

My husband and I had plans to go to his parents' house about thirty miles away for a big party on Christmas Eve 1979. I had bought a fancy new dress just for the occasion and was really looking forward to the gala. I figured it might be my last fling for a while. The presents were all neatly wrapped and waiting under the tree.

We didn't make it to that party.

I had stayed awake most of the previous night with serious stomach cramps. Around dawn, it finally occurred to me that I must be in labor — but the baby wasn't due until the day AFTER Christmas, not the day BEFORE. And I wasn't ready to not be pregnant anymore — I liked it.

Anyway, by the time I got my husband up and moving, there was no doubt. My water broke while he was dressing, and what I had thought were cramps became real-life contractions.

Everything I had learned in childbirth classes quickly flew out the window. All I could think was how much it hurt — nobody had told me about that. I forgot all about the breathing exercises that were supposed to relieve the pain, and I forgot to find a focal point to concentrate on.

My coach wasn't much better. He couldn't remember what to tell me to do or when I should do it. In the delivery room, he was still telling me to push after the baby was out.

I survived the pain, and my husband survived the trauma. In fact, it was all a faded memory within seconds after Nathaniel Harlan Taylor slipped into my world. The nurse handed the baby to my husband and told him to bathe it.

This was the same man who practically fainted at the sight of blood, who had to be dragged to Lamaze classes, and who had resisted right up to the last minute even being in the same room with me during delivery.

But he just melted into a blob of tender love as he held his tiny son at less than a minute old and gently cleaned him. Watching them in that moment touched me so deeply that nothing else mattered. I no longer cared that I was going to miss the party of the year. We had a miracle to marvel over — what could be more exciting?

I've often wished I had captured that on camera — not for me, but for my son. It's forever etched in my mind, but he hasn't seen a lot of that side of his dad.

On Christmas morning, the nurse came into my room with a big red stocking and handed it to me. Snuggled down inside, with just a head showing, was this incredibly gorgeous baby boy who had actually come out of my body. I was still in a mild state of shock. He was the perfect baby I had struggled for fifteen hours the day before to bring into this world, the one I had waited for all these years.

The pain of the previous day, the reality of the commitment that had been made, and the apprehension about my tremendous responsibility for this child faded into oblivion as I stared at the bundle next to me. Holding his hand and watching him nurse, I felt the most powerful surge of emotion — literally indescribable, but unforgettable.

I thought about the first time I heard Barbra Streisand sing "The Best Gift" on her Christmas album, about a tiny newborn child. I felt the song must have been written for me. She completely captured my sentiments.

A LITTLE BOY'S QUESTIONS ABOUT SEX

The Macon Telegraph

August 17, 1988

At the ripe old age of about three and a half, my son asked me where he came from. I have no idea what prompted him to ask that question at that time — we were on our way to preschool one morning, just riding along, watching the scenery.

With ten minutes of heavy Atlanta traffic left to go, it was hard to concentrate on an appropriate answer to an obviously serious question. His father and I were already separated, so I couldn't really expect him to understand what I was going to say about lovemaking. This was going to be tough.

(As soon as he was able to talk and put names to items, he knew — or at least was told — the proper words for the parts of the body. That much was easy. Explaining the connection of some of those body parts to his being here was the real challenge.)

Meanwhile, Nathaniel anxiously awaited my response. I quickly explained how an egg inside my body was fertilized by a sperm from his daddy and how he grew from that fertilized egg. Great so far.

His next question, with less than three minutes to go, was how did the sperm get to the egg — did I swallow it?

I answered his question using the correct names for as few words as I could get away with. His response was silence — a long silence.

I dropped him off at preschool, went to work, and worried the rest of the day. He didn't mention the subject again.

About a year later, I came across Where Did I Come From, by Peter Mayle, in an Atlanta bookstore. I flipped through the book — it was perfect — and purchased it immediately. I didn't take it home to Nathaniel. I put it away, thinking the next time he asked about his origins, I would give it to him for reference.

The book went through two moves and lay forgotten in the bottom of a box in my attic. This spring I came across it and pulled it out, thinking the time was drawing nigh. My son, now eight and a half, saw the book, curiously picked it up, and started reading. I quietly sneaked out of the room to allow him to peruse in private.

Not many minutes passed before he found me and sat down beside me with the book open, ready to pursue this endeavor together. Having just completed the second grade, there were some words he couldn't quite understand.

Where Did I Come From is illustrated by Arthur Robins. The illustrations, while cute, are straightforward and leave little to the imagination — a man and woman are shown nude, lying in bed, and in the bathtub.

Nathaniel giggled a few times at some of the descriptions and drawings of "Mom and Dad" making love, but he understood: "(Making love is) a difficult feeling to describe, but if you can imagine a gentle tingle, a sort of tickle that starts in your stomach and spreads all over, that will give you some idea of what it's like."

The book is accurate and no-nonsense, and it's entertaining for young children. Nathaniel put it down after getting about halfway through.

He had lost interest by then. He occasionally picks it up and looks through it now and may even ask for some clarification.

I feel better. He knows as much as he wants to know for the time being about sex and how babies are made. He also knows the door is open for further, more explicit inquiry whenever he's interested. And he doesn't even have to leave home to get it.

THE WORKING MOM'S DILEMMA DOESN'T SHRINK AS HER CHILD GROWS UP

The Macon Telegraph

November 26, 1989

When our food editor returned to work from maternity leave recently, she knew it would be difficult to leave her three-month-old daughter. She didn't know it would be so painful.

Fortunately, she has a husband who is thrilled...