The Gift of Crisis. Bridgitte Jackon Buckley
to reveal the sex of the baby at the shower, and share the exciting news with everyone who had shown us so much love and support. During the baby shower and after the Super Bowl Squares game, we explained to our guests what we had done with the result of the ultrasound. When it was time to find out the sex of the baby, Dennis and I stood at the front of the room with everyone gathered in silent anticipation. Nikki reached into her purse, took out the small white envelope, walked to the front of the room, and handed it to Dennis. I stood to the side while my heart pounded with nervous anticipation. Dennis quickly ripped open the envelope, pulled out the tiny piece of white paper, and read the three words out loud that brought tears to my eyes. “It’s a boy!” Laughter, cheers, and applause roared through the clubhouse as Dennis and I, along with our 150 guests, found out we would have a baby boy. The DJ turned up the music and those who were seated got out of their chairs and quickly moved onto the dance floor. Dennis held my hand as family and friends embraced us with an outpouring of love, joy, and well-wishes. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. By the end of the evening, we had received so many gifts that it took three separate trips, with the bed of my cousin’s Ram pickup truck filled to capacity, to move all the gifts we received from the clubhouse up the hill to my parents’ house. Neither Dennis nor I had ever experienced such tremendous generosity. We were overwhelmed with gratitude.
During the pregnancy, amidst all the excitement, I was filled with unanswered questions. I wondered about motherhood in general, how we would make the transition from “they’re dating” to “they’re parents,” how we would afford quality childcare, who I would be comfortable with to provide childcare, and my life direction. How would I find my place in a world so vast that the act of making a choice had come to resemble a nightmarish paradox? I was scared to confront so much uncertainty. At that time, the two things I was certain of was that I was ready to become a mother and that Dennis and I equally wanted a child. I knew that, as an adult and self-sufficient woman, I was capable of taking on such an expansive responsibility. I was completely responsible for myself financially, and didn’t ask for or need assistance. I was in a position to pay my living expenses in full and on time every month. Due to my ongoing love affair with Nordstrom’s shoe department I wasn’t, however, saving very much. Dennis worked in construction. He worked as an assistant to a general contractor and had plans to run his own contracting home improvement service. He wasn’t making very much money, but I didn’t feel much concern about his income because of what I earned. Surely I could handle diaper purchases, baby clothes, and round-the-clock breastfeeding. Surely I could forego my bi-weekly shoe purchase. Simply put, I knew I would be able to feed, house, and clothe the baby, and keep him alive.
After several information-filled question-and-answer discussions with my obstetrician and numerous late nights lying awake sifting through the pros and cons of the epidural, I decide to forego it. I want our child to begin life outside of my body with undiluted awareness. In hindsight, it was I who yearned for an undiluted sense of clarity and awareness. What will happen when this child enters my world? What unanticipated changes will he bring to my life? Who will he inspire me to become? Who will he become?
A month and a half after the baby shower, and on the exact date he is due, during what feels like the longest five minutes of my life, I push through excruciating pain without the aid of an epidural and give birth to our first child, Greyson.
Prior to the birth of Greyson, if anyone had tried to explain the profound ways in which becoming a mother can alter your perspective and change the course of your life, I don’t think I would have fully understood. I don’t think I would have been able to truly hear what was conveyed. I don’t know that anyone can truly know the depth of change that can occur when you become a mother, until you actually live it. There was absolutely no question I wanted a child and this experience with Dennis. However, as far as the prior contemplation of the mental and emotional impact I would experience as result of bonding with my child, well, I didn’t have many late nights lying awake in bed thinking about this one. I completely failed to give this crucial aspect of mothering the attention it deserves. It is within this breadth of failure that I would later find myself emotionally unprepared for separation from Greyson when it was time for my return to work.
I grew up in a household where the only option after high school that was ever discussed was to go to college. My parents encouraged my education and intellectual development with the utmost tenacity. I vividly remember my stepfather reiterating, “When you graduate from college and get a job, you should make no less than $1,500 per week.” I had no perspective to grasp what making that type of income would entail. I remember the statement because it seared into my memory as my stepfather, with the best of intentions, vehemently defined what is to be my priority. Despite having spent much of my time as a child reading and writing in journals, and as a teenager writing articles for the high school newspaper, there was never any mention of the option or validity of doing creative work for a living; nor was there any mention of the possibility that, after giving birth, I might want to stay at home with my child. The notion of temporarily opting out of the professional workforce was never brought up, mentioned, discussed, or considered. The one piece of advice I do remember receiving from my mother was never to be dependent on a man.
The emotional transition I underwent to become a mother was intimately personal, and at times utterly unfamiliar. Although he was no longer inside my body, remnants of him remained untouched inside me. Through what felt like emotional osmosis, I immediately embraced my new role as the caregiver of this child that now engulfed my heart. With the presence of Greyson, maternal love awakened an unfamiliar primal devotion.
The months leading up to my return to work were nothing less than nerve-racking. Prior to my maternity leave, the principal at the school where I worked asked me four times if I would return to work after having the baby. The fact that she asked me so many times should have given me some clue as to what might happen. I was so sure I would return. In fact, I assured the principal I would return to work in the fall and dismissed her concern. However, four months after Greyson’s birth, the new school year began, and I was not in my classroom. I couldn’t leave him. For lack of a more explicit reason to justify going back on my word, it didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. I couldn’t bear the thought of the vulnerability I would subject Greyson to by placing him in the care of a stranger. I delayed going back to work for as long as I could, which essentially meant for as long as I could pay rent without having a monthly income. I was able to stay home with Greyson until he was eight months old. Since I didn’t return to LAUSD, I had to find another teaching position. Thanks to the ongoing teacher shortage, I was able to sign on with the Hawthorne School District as a kindergarten teacher and began teaching in the spring. The new school was located literally five minutes from our apartment. The plan was for Dennis to stay home with Greyson during the day, bring him to the school during my lunch break so I could breastfeed, and go to work when I got home at 3:00 p.m. We maintained this rotation until Greyson was ten months old. When I found out my biological father’s wife had a childcare service, we decided to make a change. Dennis was beginning to complain about how little he was able to accomplish with work on the current schedule. With hesitation, I agreed to let her watch Greyson.
For the most part, things seemed to be going okay with our new childcare arrangement. By now Greyson was almost eighteen months old. Then one afternoon, I arrived at my stepmother’s house to pick up Greyson. I walked into the house as usual, and looked for Greyson. He was not there. My heart began to race. I quickly went to find my stepmother. She was in her room, talking on the phone. I politely interrupted, “Um, where is Greyson?” She said, “Oh, I sent him over to my sister-in-law’s house because I had a headache.” She spoke with the most casual tone, as if she had told me he was playing outside in the backyard. I looked at that woman like she had completely lost her mind and said, “What?” She said, “Oh, don’t worry, she’s really good with kids.” Just try for a second to imagine how hard it was for me to stay calm at this point. I did not know her sister-in-law, nor have we ever discussed the option for Greyson to be sent to someone else’s house without my consent. How did she come to the conclusion that this was a good choice? How many times has she done this without telling me? What else is going on that I’m not aware of? I was beside myself.
When I walked into her sister-in-law’s dark apartment, Greyson was sitting on the couch with a busted lip and dried blood on his mouth.