Second Son

Seventeen years ago this week, November 27, 1995, Ken and I were blessed with a second son.  We named him Benjamin Kendrick Lunsford.  We always had a hard time agreeing on boy names… could always agree on girl names.  We quickly agreed that if we had a daughter, her name would be Elizabeth Grace, but as we had with Jesse, we couldn’t agree on a name for another son.  After having such a difficult delivery with Jesse, I had asked Ken, “Since I went through the valley of the shadow to birth the first one, that means I get to name any others we have, right?”  He agreed that I could, but later on down the road,  he tried to renege on it.  Holding him to his original agreement, I informed him that since our first son was named Jesse Kenneth, after Ken, if we had a second son, he would be named Benjamin Kendrick, after me.  I don’t think Ken was thrilled with the name I chose, but he had several months to get used to it.  I think he was a little passive-aggressive about it though, because for the first two years of Benjamin’s life, Ken only ever called him “Scooter”. 

When we were expecting Jesse, we had never been able to find out if he was a girl or boy and truthfully didn’t know until the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!” on the day he was born.  I was determined that it would be different the second time around.  I remember going in for the ultrasound with two buttons in my hands.  One said, “It’s a girl”, and the other said “It’s a boy”.  I told the technician that I would NOT get off of her table until I knew which button to wear home.  So, with Ken, Jesse and Sweet Pea all standing by, she had me turn every which way imaginable so she could try and let us know.  She finally said, “Oh there he is!  You are having a boy!”  I excitedly pinned the “boy” button on my shirt.  From that day forward, I always referred to him as “Benjamin” and not “the baby”. 

I am always amazed at what people say sometimes.  When we started announcing that we were expecting another son, several people asked me how disappointed I was that it wasn’t a girl this time.  I had just found out that our baby was healthy and growing like he should… I was NOT disappointed.  And I’ve always thought that all boys need a brother, so I was happy for Jesse. 

The pregnancy with Benjamin was pretty uneventful.  Ken and I had decided that I would stay home with the boys after he was born.  I made just about enough money at the job I was working at the time to pay someone else to watch my children, but that was all.  It would have been CRAZY to go back to work, just to pay someone else to raise my kids.  When we decided I would be a stay-at-home-mom, Ken suggested that I just go on and quit my job so I would have a few months to spend just with Jesse.  He didn’t have to tell me twice!  I gave my notice the next day and stayed only long enough to train my replacement.  I think I was about five months along when I quit.  I didn’t go back to work until after Benjamin started kindergarten and I never ever regretted our decision.

We worried that we’d have another difficult delivery and wanted to avoid that at all costs.  I asked my doctor what the odds would be that I would end up having to have another C-section.  He said that since my problem with Jesse had been that I never fully dilated, the chances were high that the same thing could happen again.  We decided that instead of waiting to go into labor and probably having a repeat procedure, we would just choose Benjamin’s birthday and schedule a planned C-section.  That would take a lot of the worry out of the whole process.  We decided on the Monday after Thanksgiving, November 27^th. 

I remember thinking about how busy and crazy it can get when you have a new baby, so I decided we needed to get all of our Christmas shopping/decorating/wrapping done before we went to the hospital, so I set about making sure that happened.  I spent many long hours cross-stitching Benjamin’s Christmas stocking because I was determined he would have one that matched Jesse’s on his first Christmas.  It was a busy time of great anticipation.

On Benjamin’s birthday, Mama came up (as usual) to look after Jesse for us.  While Ken and I were bringing his little brother into the world, Jesse was helping Grandmom bake cupcakes with blue frosting to take to his preschool class.  He was so excited to finally be able to wear his I’m the Big Brother shirt. 

Ken and I got to the hospital bright and early on that wonderful, much longed-for Monday morning.   My best friend, Jan, was going to be our labor and delivery nurse, so I knew we would be in good hands.  Someone asked me if I was nervous, but I remember saying that I was more excited than nervous.  Jan gave me one of those lovely hospital gowns to put on and sent me to the restroom to pee in a cup.  She was going to wait and let the IV team start my IV, because she didn’t want to run the risk of hurting me, since she loved me.  I guess, though, that I must have been more nervous than I realized, because all of a sudden, things sort of went a little hazy.  I remember saying, “Jan, I don’t think I feel so good.”  To which she yelled at me, “You lay down in that bed, right NOW!!”  She promptly popped that IV in me before I could even realize what she was doing.  Later she told me that I had turned a pasty shade of green and scared her half to death.  “Don’t you EVER do that to me again”, she ordered.  “I didn’t mean to do it the first time”, I whimpered back at her.  Poor Jan… I’m not sure she has ever forgiven me for scaring her like that.

About that time, the anesthesiologist came to do my epidural.  They made Ken leave the room and it made him so mad.  They got the epidural placed in my back and started pumping the medicine in me.  After a little while, he would stick my belly with a little pin and ask, “Can you feel that?”  I told him that I could feel it, but  it didn’t hurt.  He pumped more medicine in.  This happened three or four more times.  Every time I said I could still feel him poking me with his pin, he would pump in more medicine.  Finally, it was time for us to go into the delivery suite.  They wheeled me in and someone asked if I thought I could help move myself onto the table.  Now, with Jesse, not only could I wiggle my toes and climb over to the delivery table, but I had felt the scalpel go across my belly.  It didn’t hurt, but I could still feel it.  I assumed it would be the same on that day, so I said, “Yes, I believe I can.”  Well, the only part of myself that I could move was my arms, upper chest, shoulders and head.  Nothing from mid-chest down would budge.  Boy, was I surprised! 

After they moved me onto the table, they set up the drapes and went to work.  Ken didn’t try to look over the drapes this time.  I guess he had seen enough when he took a peek on Jesse’s birthday.  Once Benjamin was born, the doctor handed him directly to Jan.  Benjamin’s “Aunt Jan” got to hold him before his Mama did.  Jan said, “He looks like Jesse, but oh, he has dimples!”  She brought him close so I could kiss him.  He was perfect!  "We've been waiting for you!" I whispered, through tears.  Ken and I were both overwhelmed with emotion.  When they got me to the recovery room, I was shaking so hard from the epidural, I was almost afraid to hold Benjamin, for fear I would drop him.  Jan said, “That’s okay, we’ll be right back!”, and went happily down the hall, showing off “our” new little boy.  Ken and I were so glad that Jan was able to be with us for such a special occasion.

Later that afternoon, Mama brought Jesse up to meet his new baby brother.  I was holding Benjamin in my arms when they came in.  The moment Jesse spoke, Benjamin turned his little head toward Jesse.  That baby already knew his brother’s voice!  It was a tremendously sweet moment.

It is hard for me to believe that seventeen years have passed since I first laid eyes on that precious little dimple-face boy.  Benjamin looked a lot my baby pictures when he was a baby, but as he has grown older, his resemblance to his dad has gotten more and more pronounced.  He is built exactly like Ken, walks and talks like Ken, and has many of the same mannerisms and expressions.  Sometimes the resemblance is so strong that it takes my breath away.  I worry, sometimes, that Benjamin’s only true memories of Ken will be of him being sick.  He was just a baby (seven) when Ken was diagnosed.  But I have always talked to both boys about their Daddy, so I think Benjamin does have good memories of Ken, even if they are borrowed ones.

Happy Birthday, Benjamin Kendrick Lunsford!  I am so blessed that God chose me to be your Mama.           

     

Anniversary

SIGH… if my sweet Ken had lived, we would be celebrating our 23^rd wedding anniversary this week.  It comes on the heels of the 10^th anniversary of Ken’s cancer diagnosis, which was last week.  In an attempt to alleviate some of the bone-crushing sadness this time of year always brings, I have decided to write about our engagement and our wedding day.

Ken and I became officially engaged in the spring of 1989.  We had been dating exclusively for almost a year.  We hadn’t mentioned marriage, but I think we both felt like we were headed in that direction.  Ken knew I wanted a home and family and he had even stated on several occasions that, “One of these days, I’d like to have a wife and a couple of little rug rats running around”.  (I find it sweetly ironic that when Jesse was little, one of his favorite TV shows was called Rugrats.)

One day, we were sitting on Ken’s front porch steps, just hanging out.  I think we had just gotten home from our weekly flea market and yard sale excursion.  Some couples go to dinner and a movie for their weekly date… we always made the rounds at the local flea market and neighborhood yard sales and then had lunch.  Anyway, we were sitting on the steps, talking about nothing in particular, when the conversation turned towards the future.  I remember asking Ken, “So where do you think this thing between us is heading?”  “What do you mean?”, was Ken’s reply.  “Well”, I said, “You know I’d like to have a family… I’m almost 30 years old.”  Ken nodded his head, but remained silent.  I figured the conversation was over.  We sat for a while longer, side by side on the porch steps.  Then, Ken leaned over towards me, so that his shoulder touched my shoulder, and quietly said, “I reckon we can get married, if you want to.”  I remember looking sideways at him to see if he was serious.  We grinned at each other and I said, “okay”.  I know it’s not moonlight and roses, but it was SO Ken. 

The following week, Ken took me shopping and bought me an engagement ring.  Compared to what most young ladies expect now-days, it was relatively small… only a quarter karat.  But I adored it and I absolutely loved what it represented.  Years later, after our boys were born, Ken bought me a ruby and diamond wrap to go around it.  He offered to buy me a bigger diamond too, but I never wanted anything other than the ring he gave me first.

We decided that we would like to be married before the end of that year.  Didn’t want it to be close to the Thanksgiving/Christmas crunch time, so we decided on October.  Ken suggested, “Hey, why don’t we just have it on your birthday?  That would be a great present, right?”  I told him that he wasn’t going to get off that easy… he was just trying to make it easier to remember our anniversary!  He grinned his “uh-oh, you caught me” grin, and we agreed on October 14^th.

I don’t recall a lot of the wedding preparations.  We wanted it small… we were both more interested in being married than in getting married.  My mama made my beautiful wedding gown, along with the bridesmaids and flower girl dresses.  Ken’s family told me, “You’ll never get Robert (Ken’s dad) into a tuxedo!”  But, I guess he liked me or something, because he never gave me any lip about it.  He went for his fitting with little or no complaint.  Truthfully, I believe he liked wearing the tuxedo… he thought he was pretty cute, all dressed up.  He was, by the way.

Our wedding day dawned as one of those beautiful autumn days where the sky is just a crystal-clear, sparkly blue.  I’ve often said that the weather that day was God’s wedding gift to Ken and me.  I got to the church around noon or so, because the wedding was going to be at 3:00.  I don’t remember being really nervous until I put on the dress and veil.  I guess that made it real for me.  Michaelann, my sweet little niece, was adorable in her pink taffeta flower girl dress with rows and rows of lace.  She kept running back and forth from the bride’s room to the church and giving me updates on who was arriving.  I wondered if she was worried that Ken wouldn’t come, because every time she would announce who had arrived, she would say, “But Uncle Ken isn’t here yet!”  Lucky for me, he made it, with time to spare.

When it was time for the wedding to begin, I asked my Daddy to pray for us.  He and Mama and I held hands and he asked for God’s blessing on our wedding and on our marriage.  Then he held out his arm and walked me to the front of the church where my handsome husband was waiting.  I still remember the light in Ken’s eyes as he took my hand. 

The ceremony was brief.  I remember saying “I do”, but the one line that stayed with me was actually from the ring ceremony.  Instead of saying “With this ring, I thee wed”, we said, “With this ring, I pledge my life and my love to you.  In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”  It still makes me well up every time I remember that promise we made to each other on that beautiful day.

So, shortly after 3:00 pm on Saturday, October 14, 1989, Ken and I were pronounced husband and wife and presented to the world for the first time as “Mr. & Mrs. Kenneth Wayne Lunsford”.  It just felt so perfectly right. 

I do not remember much about the reception… just little snippets here and there.  I remember Ken’s cousin, Louise, introduced herself to me as his double-first cousin (Ken’s mom and her sister married Ken’s dad and his brother).  One of Ken’s uncles hugged me and said, “Well hey there!  I’m your Uncle Gordon!”   And I remember being very thankful that my Granny was there, because she had to have her gall bladder removed shortly before our wedding and we didn’t know for sure if she’d be able to be there.  I remember tossing the bouquet.  Sweet little Kelly, the girl who was passing out my birdseed bags, caught it, and about six months later, her daddy, Brian, married Jan, who would become Kelly’s mom and my best friend in the whole world.

When we got ready to leave, everyone started showering us with birdseed.  I noticed what looked like some really big and colorful seeds falling over our heads.  Closer examination revealed that they weren’t just throwing birdseed, but M&Ms too!  Ken’s mom had gotten his nieces to throw M&Ms because she knew they were my favorite candy.  I thought it was very sweet, but I also thought it was a waste of perfectly good M&Ms.  Maybe they should have just thrown me the whole bag of candy!  J

When we got to the car, we stopped in our tracks.  Now, I had expected that certain folks were going to “decorate” the car we would leave in.  I truly looked forward to it as part of the whole wedding experience.  I was not prepared, however, for how thorough they would be.  My car was completely covered, inside and out, with silly string, balloons, and Fruity Pebbles breakfast cereal (I still haven’t figured that one out!).  We had to take balloons out of the car so we would have room to get in.  We hopped in that ridiculously decorated car and took off.  And what was our first stop as husband and wife?  THE CAR WASH!!!  We must have made quite a picture with Ken busy vacuuming out and hosing down the car as I stood by in my wedding dress with the train gathered up in my arms!  And we were never able to get all of the cereal out of the car.  Several pieces got stuck down in the crack where the windshield and dashboard meet.  For years thereafter, people would look puzzled at me and say, "Why do you have Fruity Pebbles in your car?!"

That beautiful day was 23 years ago, but sometimes, it feels like it was just yesterday.  Ken went to heaven a month after we celebrated our 15^th anniversary.  He was too sick that day to go out shopping, so he told me to go and pick out something I wanted.  I chose a necklace and matching earrings.  To this day, I can’t bear to wear them. 

Happy Anniversary, Ken.  I am so very thankful that you chose me to be your wife.  I love you.

          

 

                   

Why I LOVE the 4th of July!

I am going to go on record and say that Summer holidays have never been my favorite.  I don’t like to be hot enough to sweat… I don’t like being sunburned… I don’t like mosquito bites… I don’t like watermelon… I don’t like the sound of exploding things.  The ocean is pretty to look at, but I don’t like salt water and I don’t like sand.  I don’t like fishing, because if I catch something, I might actually have to touch it.   I don’t like swimming in lakes because I can’t see my feet, and the only reason I can imagine wanting to be dragged behind a speeding boat is if there is a snake or a shark behind me trying to take a bite out of my big behind.    I much prefer the Fall thru Winter holidays, with the crisp, cool air, changing leaf colors, turkey & dressing, manger scenes, decorated trees, Christmas cookies, Christmas cards, Christmas carols, colder weather, and even snow.  That being said, though, I have to admit that July 4^th is one of my all-time favorite days of the year.  Let me explain why.

I guess I will backpedal a little so I can set the scene.  In the Fall of 1987, I was teaching a K5 class at a private school in Birmingham.  It was my third year at this particular school and even though class sizes were smaller throughout the school that year, there was no indication of any problems.  But one afternoon, just before Thanksgiving, I was called in, along with one of the 4^th grade teachers, to have a “little meeting” with the school administrator.  We both figured it was a curriculum issue.  Well, when we sat down, the administrator informed us that due to declining school enrollment, we, and one of the 1^st grade teachers (she was supposed to be at the meeting, but didn’t get the message) no longer had jobs there.  I guess the word that best described my feelings at that moment is “thunder-struck”. 

Once the shock and hurt eased a little bit, then the panic set in.  That job had been my main source of income.  I had rent, a car payment and bills to pay.  No one hired teachers in the middle of the school year.  I just didn’t know what to do.  I prayed, HARD, and started applying for jobs.  I had already been helping at my then brother-in-law’s video store, so I could still do that.  I was able to pick up a part-time job at a tutoring place.  But even with two part-time jobs, once my severance from the school ran out, I would NOT be able to pay my bills.  My savings dwindled quickly, and I was finally to the point that I either had to get a full-time job, or I was going to have to move back home with my parents.  I remember crying out to God that night, begging for His guidance and promising I would follow wherever He led, if He would just help me find a job. 

It is amazing how quickly we forget our promises to God.  Just a couple of days later, I was sitting at my Mama’s table, reading the want ads when I came across one for which I was exactly qualified.  They needed someone with a Master’s degree in Early Childhood Education with teaching experience with 3 to 6-yr-olds.  I remember getting so excited as I read on and found, to my absolute dismay, that the place advertising the position was in Chattanooga, TN.  In my orneriness, I tossed the paper across the table and said, “I am NOT going to move to Chattanooga just to find a job!”   Anyway, as I was driving home, I felt an almost physical tap on my shoulder and heard the words, “Why not?!”  I argued at God all the way home, but He kept on tapping and asking.  By the time I got home, I finally said, in exasperation, “Okay, okay, okay!!!  I will send them a resume!”  And I did.

This was one of those times when God answered my prayer so definitively that I had no doubt what the outcome would be.  He told me that this particular job was MY job.  I felt it so deeply that I began making moving plans before anyone from the place had even called me.  I knew they would be calling, but with two part-time jobs, I was never home during the day, so I knew I would need to go and buy an answering machine.  This was before the days of cell phones and voice mail, so you had to buy a whole separate machine that recorded onto cassette tapes, to attach to your telephone.  These machines did not come cheap.  So, with what little money I had left, I bought an answering machine and an interview dress, and went on about my business.  Just a couple of evenings later, when I got home from my two little jobs, there was a message from the program director.  I called him the next day, he asked if I would come for an interview.  I did, and I GOT THE JOB, just like God told me I would.  Suddenly I was the supervisor of a therapeutic nursery school serving children who had been abused and/or neglected.  I just knew that it must be God’s will for me to make a difference in the lives of these kids, and that is why He moved me up there to take that job.  And even though it was a PART of His will for me, God had more far-reaching plans in mind.  He used that job to get me in a place where He could bless me with His REAL plan for my life.

As I was running around like a crazy woman, preparing to move to Chattanooga, one of my friends made the off-hand comment, “I’ll bet ‘Mr. Right’ lives up there!”  I remember getting all indignant with her and spouting off, “If you think I would move my life to another state just to meet a MAN, you are crazy!!!”  (Can’t you just see God smiling and nodding his head?  Can you see where this is heading?”)  I went about my business, moved, settled in, and started my new job.

I had been up there about a month when I started looking for ways to meet people.  I was already visiting churches, but one day I saw a sign across the street from my apartment complex advertising “Clogging Lessons”.  I know… the thought of seeing me stomping around in tap shoes must be making you roll your eyeballs and shake your head in disbelief.  But, I weighed a lot less then than I do now and God was still nudging me, so I signed up.  Soon, I was making new friends.  I met one girl who was a little older than me, but a single career-girl like me, so we became buddies.  One night she invited me to another friend’s house to watch movies and hang out.  When we got there, I found myself being introduced to a slow-talking, blue-eyed country boy named Ken Lunsford.  (See that twinkle in God’s eye?)  We talked a little, watched movies, and went home.

You will remember, from previous posts, that I was in a place of suspicion when it came to men.  I truthfully still believed that I was too old and heavy for anyone to be interested in me and that I would spend the rest of my life as a single woman.  So you can imagine my surprise when Ken called a couple of days later.  To make a long story short, God’s plan for moving me to Chattanooga had, indeed, been a MAN—a very special one.  Ken was my “Mr. Right” and God had to move me to a place where we would meet each other.   The rest, so they say, is history.

Hmmm… this post has gone in a very different direction than I anticipated… I was going to talk about the 4^th of July, wasn’t I?  Well, I will finish up with why it is so special to me.  Ken and I went on our first date to Lake Winnepesaukah (Lake Winnie, for short), an amusement park in Rossville, GA.  We had gone there a couple of times that summer, for concerts or just to hang out, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked me if I wanted to go watch fireworks there on July 4^th.  At this point in our relationship, we were seriously “in like” with each other, so I readily agreed to go.  We went in the early evening, so we could spend some time in the park before the fireworks show began.  Ken had recently worked up the nerve to start putting his arm around me and holding my hand, so we wandered around like a couple of kids.  It was an enjoyable evening.  It started getting dark and we walked to the parking lot to get our cooler and blanket out of the car so we could get a good spot on the hill to watch the fireworks.  Just as we got to the car, Ken sort of pulled me around and KISSED ME!!  I remember being so surprised – it had been so long since I believed that ANY man would even want to kiss me.  We smiled at each other, and shyly, kissed again.  I think it was in that moment that being “in like” took a more serious and permanent turn for us.  We found a spot on the hill and watched the fireworks.  For some reason, on that night, the fireworks seemed a whole lot brighter and prettier.  And yes, I guess you could say that Ken and I made some “fireworks” of our own. 

So… why do I love the 4^th of July?  Because it was on that day that Ken Lunsford kissed Melinda Kendrick for the very first time.  Each year, that day always reminds me of how it felt when we fell in love  Maybe, just maybe, the extra brightness, twinkles and sparkles of the fireworks that night were simply a reflection of God’s smile.    

   

              

    

Firstborn

Jesse’s due date (or I guess it was MY due date, when Jesse was supposed to be born), was June 3^rd, 1991.  He unfortunately didn’t make his arrival until June the 14^th, a full 11 DAYS LATE!!  In commemoration of this auspicious, occasion, I have decided to tell the story of Jesse’s birth.  It can be the build-up to my “baby” turning 21.

First of all, can I just say, that for a pregnant woman, when her due date comes and goes with no baby being born, it is just not funny anymore.  I remember that I spent the entire day of June 4^th crying because Jesse was due on the 3^rd and didn’t come.  Secondly, I have to say that people can say some of the dumbest things to an overdue pregnant woman.  I can’t remember how many times different ones threw “You haven’t had that baby yet?!” my way.  It was quite obvious from looking at me that the answer to their question was NO!!!!  It felt like they thought I was doing it on purpose or something!!  I got to the point where I told people that it had all been a huge joke, that I had never really been pregnant, but had taken a job as a basketball smuggler!  Or I would look really surprised and exclaim, “What baby?!  It’s not nice to assume a woman is pregnant just because she has a big round belly!” 

Anyway, since it didn’t look like Jesse had any intention of making an appearance on his own, the Dr. decided to admit me to the hospital and induce my labor.  He told me to check in after 7:00 pm on the 12^th and they would begin the induction the next morning.  I worried a little about having a baby born on the 13^th… didn’t want him to have birthdays on the dreaded Friday the 13^th… but by that point, I was more than ready to finally hold that little bundle in my arms instead in my belly, so I was all for it.

Ken and I arrived at the hospital just past 7:00 on the 12^th.  They put me in one of the L&D rooms and there was a picture of a COW on the wall.  I wondered what genius it was that thought it would be a good idea to put a cow picture in a room that would be occupied by hugely pregnant women trying to give birth.  I’m sure it was a man. 

Once I got changed and into the bed, the nurse came and hooked me up to all the equipment to monitor my contractions (once they started) and the baby’s heartbeat.  Said she would come in a little later and put some kind of gel on my cervix to soften it up before they started the induction the next morning.  Sounded like a GREAT idea to me.  She came back just a little while later, looked at the monitors and said, “Did you know that you are having contractions right now?”  Well, no, I didn’t know it, because I wasn’t feeling anything other than the same general discomfort I had been feeling for the past month or so.  She said she was going to call my Dr. and let him know, because if they went ahead and put the gel on my cervix, it could stop the contractions. 

About an hour or so later, the nurse came back in and said Dr. Brown had said not to do the gel.  Then she cheerily said, “You can get dressed and go home now and we’ll see you back in the morning!”  WHAT??!!!  I finally make it to the hospital and they are going to send me back home?!  I was incredulous.  She must have seen it in my face, because she hurriedly said, “You can stay the night if you want to, but we won’t be doing anything for you until in the morning and if you stay it will cost you for another night.”  I got out of the bed and started getting re-dressed, sobbing as I went.  Ken told me we could stay if I wanted, but I didn’t see the point in having to pay for a useless night in the hospital, so we went home.

Around 4:00 or so the next morning, I woke up and discovered that I had lost the mucus plug.  I will spare you a description of what it looked like.  Just let me say that I was (and still am) amazed at the processes of the human body.  Anyway, shortly after that momentous occasion, I started having contractions… REAL ones.  I was SO excited!  I was going to have my baby without having to be helped along by labor inducing drugs.  Even though we didn’t have to be at the hospital until 7:00 or 8:00, I was much too excited to go back to bed.  So I took a shower, checked my suitcase to make sure everything was packed (even though it had already been packed for three weeks now), frosted a cake I had baked because I knew my Mama and Daddy were coming later that day, and cooked Ken a very big breakfast.  All the while, I was timing my contractions.  They were getting stronger and closer together.  By the time Ken and I left for the hospital, they were about five minutes apart.  They continued at this rate all the way to Erlanger Hospital.  But the very moment we pulled into the parking deck, they STOPPED!  I mean it was like they had never even happened!  I couldn’t believe it.

We went up to the Labor and Delivery floor and I told the nurse at the desk (through gritted teeth), “I am here to have my baby.”  She asked, “Are you in labor?”  “NOOOO!!”, I said, still gritting my teeth.  I was honestly so mad that my contractions had stopped that I could barely talk to her.  Ken told her we had been there the night before but they had sent us home and they were supposed to do an induction that morning.  She checked the orders and finally found my name.  This time she took us to one of the new L & D suites and thankfully, not the room with the cow picture on the wall.  She gave me a gown and told me to change and get in the bed.  About the time I got settled, Dr. Brown came in and said, “I’m going to break your water and then they’ll start the Pitocin to get your contractions started.”  Then he pulled out what looked like a giant crochet hook, pushed it up inside of me and started fishing around.  I guess that is the closest I have ever come to hurting a member of the medical profession.  I drew my foot back and told Dr. Brown that if he didn’t stop, I would kick him.  He laughed and said, “No, you won’t.”  He just didn’t know how serious I was.  Anyway, he stopped and said he’d “try again later”.  “Not so long as I’m conscious!”, was my reply. 

Being that this was my first time giving birth, I had the crazy notion that I would “go natural”.  Ha ha! Silly me!  Once they started the Pitocin drip and the contractions started coming one on top of the other with no time to breathe in between, I quickly opted to have an epidural.  (Yep!  I am a BIG wimp!)  The first anesthesiologist they sent was from India.  His accent was so heavy that I could not understand a word he said.  Each time he would speak to me, I had to ask him to repeat himself and he was getting mad at me because I couldn’t understand him!  Call me crazy, but I do not think people who are in considerable pain should have to worry about having to find someone to translate what the doctor is saying to them.  Finally, I grabbed the nurse’s arm and said, “Please go get me someone who speaks English!”  She called for another anesthesiologist, who placed the epidural with no problems, and we settled in to wait. 

We waited… and waited… and waited… and then we waited some more.  The monitors showed I was having really good contractions, but evidently not good enough to convince our hard-headed little baby to go on and be born.  This went on all day.  Every half hour or so, someone would come in, introduce themselves and say, “I’m going to check you now.”  Erlanger was a teaching hospital, so there were a lot of pre-med and nursing students, residents, etc., hanging around trying to learn something.  But we waited so long and so many different people came in, at one point I told Ken, “I think someone is out in the hallway selling tickets!”  Anyway, they all “checked me” and they all said the same thing… “Oh good!  You are at 7 cm.  Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”  Then they would leave, before I could tell them that I had been at 7 cm ALL DAY!! 

The waiting continued.  Around mid-afternoon, one of the nurses came in and said that maintenance was going to be working on the AC that evening, so they would be turning off the system soon.  REALLY?!  It is the middle of June and you are going to turn off the air conditioner while I’m trying to have a baby?!  Unbelievable!!  They turned it off and it got HOT!  Luckily, we had a very sweet nurse on that shift who went in search of a fan for the room and a recliner chair for my Daddy.  Wish we could have kept that nurse, because after the shift change, our nurse was less than interested about me and my baby.  She had a student nurse with her and they stood, one on each side of my bed, totally ignoring me and yammering on about how rotten their kids were.  I interrupted their gab-fest to tell the nurse that my bag of epidural medicine was just about empty.  “Hmm”, she said, and they left the room.  I figured they would be back in soon with another bag of meds, but the sun went down, the bag emptied out, and they never came.  I started to get very uncomfortable, so I pushed the call button.  She stuck her head in the door and looked at me like I was interrupting something important.  I said, “I can feel my contractions.”  She stomped over to the monitor and said, “Well, it’s no wonder… you are really blowing them off the charts over here!”  Then she turned to leave.  “Wait!”, I yelled.  “This thing in my back is so I WON’T feel my contractions, isn’t it?”  She looked at the bag of meds (the same one I had told her earlier was almost empty) and said, “Well, that one’s run out.  They’ll have to do another epidural on you.  Do you want me to call the anesthesiologist again?”  “Well, DUH!”, I thought.  “Yes, please do”, I said. 

By this time, we were into the wee-hours of the 14^th.  Ken was curled up on the couch, Daddy was stretched out in the recliner, Mama was fanning me and bringing me cool cloths, and I was in tremendous pain, begging anyone who would listen to “please let me go home”.  The anesthesiologist came in to do my second epidural.  Unfortunately, though, I was in such pain that I had a hard time holding still, and he was never able to get it placed correctly.  About this time, Dr. Brown came in.  He said that I’m still at 7 cm (SURPRISE!) and that he will give me two more hours to have this baby before he does a C-section.  “Or”, he said, “we can go ahead and do a C-section now”.  I looked at Ken, he nodded, and we both said, “Now!”  My immediate concern was whether or not Ken would still be able to go into the delivery room with me.  Dr. Brown said only if they were able to get another epidural to take effect.  If they had to put me to sleep, Ken couldn’t go.  They called the anesthesia department and they sent the doctor to come and do another (my THIRD) epidural.  Thankfully, this one took.

As they were wheeling me to the delivery suite, I suddenly realized that I could wiggle my toes.  I remember that all of my friends said when I had an epidural, I wouldn’t be able to feel my feet.  So I said to the anesthesiologist who was at the head of my gurney, “I can feel my toes.”  He continued talking to whoever else it was at the head of the gurney.  I said, a little louder this time, “I can feel my toes!”.  Still no response.  This time, I yelled, “I CAN FEEL MY TOES!!!!”.  He stopped talking and smiled down at me and said, “Can you feel your contractions?”  “No”, I replied, BUT I CAN FEEL MY TOES!!!”.  He laughed and said, “Well, honey, we’re not going to be cutting your toes!”

When we got to the delivery suite, things sort of started going in fast motion.  Ken came in all gowned up, I got onto the table, they put drapes up all around me and got down to the business of bringing our firstborn child into the world.  Ken stood up once and peeked over the drape, but he sat back down quickly and was a little green around the gills. 

  At this point, we still did not know if our baby was a girl or a boy.  Very uncooperative little critter whenever we had ultrasounds.  I had the feeling for my whole pregnancy that it would be a girl… had only really considered that it might be a boy for the two weeks prior to the birth.  I had a really good track-record for correctly guessing the sex of other women’s babies, so I think Ken and Mama and Daddy fully expected a girl.  Ken and I hadn’t even been able to agree on a name for a boy baby until just before we went to the hospital when I gave him two choices and told him to pick one.  We finally agreed on Jesse Kenneth, and it was a good thing, because after much tugging and pulling, Dr. Brown happily announced, “It’s a BOY!!”  Then the nurses whisked him away and I didn’t get to see him until after Dr. Brown had stapled me shut and I was in the recovery room.  I was getting concerned, but they brought him in shortly thereafter.  It seems that there was meconium in his water and they didn’t want him to breathe it into his little lungs.  The umbilical cord had also been wrapped around his neck – twice, so his little nailbeds were purple when they handed him to me.  I shudder to think what could have happened if we had tried to push that sweet baby through the birth canal.  Thank you, God, for not letting me push!

Jesse Kenneth Lunsford was born at 8:13 am on June 14, 1991.  He weighed 8 lbs. 9 oz. and was 21 inches long.  Due to the C-section, he had a perfectly round little head and when he scrunched up his forehead, he looked just like my Daddy.  We promptly christened that expression “the Granddad face”.  Now, I already loved this little scamp.  I had ever since the moment I saw two lines on that pregnancy test.  But when they put Jesse in my arms for the first time, the love I felt for him simply took my breath away.  I call it the “earth-shaking, heart-breaking love”.  I don’t think I ever fully realized how very much my parents loved me until that moment when I felt that kind of love for my own child.  Ken and I knew that our lives would never be the same.

It was about then that the nurse brought Mama and Daddy back.  They knew the baby had been born, but the nurse hadn’t told them if it was a boy or a girl.  I said to them, “Come in and meet your new grandson.”  I will never ever forget the way my Daddy’s face brightened up as he said, “Grandson?”  Aww… it still makes me misty when I remember. 

That was 21 years ago.  Now my sweet little baby boy is a man.  I thank God every day for this precious blessing that He gave us all those years ago.  Happy Birthday, Jesse!  Your Mama loves you!!!  (And your Daddy did too, with his whole heart.) 

           

            

In Memory

Today’s post is dedicated to four little Lunsford babies that the world never got to meet…

Joshua Andrew Lunsford was the son of one of Ken’s nephews and his wife, Rebecca. Joshua would have been seventeen years old this year, but sadly, he died in utero two months before his expected birthday. Learning of his passing was one of those “time-standing-still” moments for me. I had, just the week before, announced to the world that Ken and I were pregnant with our second child. I even remember talking to Bekki (I think she goes by Rebecca now, but I have always know her as “Bekki”) that week to ask her to return a book on childbirth that I had leant her when she was expecting her daughter, Samantha. I told her that I needed it because just a few short months after her new baby arrived, his/her new cousin would be born. I hung up the phone smiling, thinking about how exciting it would be, having two new babies in the family.

A day or so after that phone conversation, Ken came home wearing his “I have something to tell you that will really upset you” face. He was clearly shaken. He said, “Bekki lost her baby today.” My immediate response was, “Bekki who?” I just couldn’t believe he was talking about Bekki Lunsford… she was in her third trimester already… women didn’t “lose” their babies in the third trimester! Ken held both of my hands and quietly told me that Bekki’s baby had died. The intensity of the feelings I had in that moment is hard to describe adequately. First, I was absolutely heartbroken for Bekki and her husband that they were having to say good-bye to their sweet child before they were ready. Next, I felt a tremendous amount of guilt because their baby was dead and there I sat, with new life growing inside of my body. Last, I was terrified! If Bekki could lose their baby at seven months, how could I not worry constantly about our newly conceived child? It was one of the deepest sorrows I ever remember feeling.

I couldn’t bring myself to attend Joshua’s memorial service. I figured the last thing Bekki and her husband needed to see was a newly pregnant family member. So, I ordered white baby roses with baby blue ribbon and sent Ken to the service with instructions to hug Bekki and her husband and tell them how much I loved them and how heartbroken I was over their loss. I stayed home and cried.

Joshua Andrew Lunsford went to Heaven seventeen years ago this week. Bekki posted about it on Facebook. Remembering that time stirred something in my soul and made me want to talk about Joshua (thank you, Bekki, for allowing me to tell his story) and three more little Lunsford babies, lost too soon. These children all belonged to Ken and me… babies we lost after Benjamin was born.

Ken and I were both in our early thirties when we married, so we got a late start trying to have babies. To complicate matters further, six months prior to the wedding, I had been diagnosed with endometriosis, a condition that can cut a woman’s fertility by as much as 75%. Our chances of getting pregnant “the old-fashioned way” were pretty slim, but Ken and I put it in God’s hand and prayed that He would bless us with children. It took about a year, but finally, we got two lines instead of one on a pregnancy test. Nine months later, our sweet little Jesse Kenneth Lunsford was born. We were so elated and almost immediately decided to start trying for another baby. This time took longer… almost four years. But once again, God blessed us and expanded our family with another precious boy, Benjamin Kendrick Lunsford.

We decided about half-way through our second pregnancy that we would love to have one more baby. Since I would turn 37 the month before Benjamin was born, and since the endometriosis made it so hard for me to get pregnant, we decided not to use any kind of birth control after Benjamin was born. We figured, based on our past experiences, that it would take at least another year before we’d conceive again. So you can imagine our surprise (and delight) to find that when Benjamin was only seven months old, we were pregnant again. Ken and I looked at each other, giggled, and said, “What have we done?”

At the first appointment with the doctor, the one to confirm the pregnancy, we were given some devastating news. A routine ultrasound revealed that there was no heartbeat. I can still remember Dr. Brown looking at me with kind, sad eyes and saying, “Melinda, this is not going to be a viable pregnancy.” A breathless agony came over me, too deep even for tears at that moment. All I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Dr. Brown went on to talk about how common miscarriage is (man, I HATE that word!) in the first trimester and that it’s no one’s fault and that, in most cases, they don’t know what causes it. All of what he said was the truth, but none of it was what I wanted to hear. He told us what to expect when the miscarriage occurred. We went home to wait. The next day, when my body started trying to expel what should have been our child, it was such a feeling of betrayal. Women’s bodies are made to nourish and nurture new life, not get rid of it too soon. When it was finally over, I felt emptied out—body, mind and soul.

Dr. Brown told us that we needed to wait at least six weeks before trying for another baby, so as soon as six weeks had passed, we started trying again. Eight months later, we had another positive test. The trip to the doctor this time was much more subdued. I was terrified. Dr. Brown smiled reassuringly and told me that it was unusual for a woman to experience back-to-back miscarriages. But the look on his face when he did the ultrasound confirmed my fears that this baby, too, had died. Our hearts, still grieving for the first baby, were crushed.

When we lost the second baby, things in my body got all out of whack and Dr. Brown decided I needed to have a D&C. Ken and I had already decided that even though we longed for another child, we couldn’t keep putting ourselves through the heartbreak of losing them. No one mentioned to us that one of the best times for a woman to get pregnant is just after having a D&C because everything in the uterus is all cleaned out. Not knowing that, coupled with all of the upset that was going on in our lives and the fact that it always took us such a long time getting pregnant, we didn’t think to use any kind of birth control. So, two and a half months after the loss of our second baby, I found myself staring at another positive pregnancy test. I couldn’t even bring myself to say it out loud to Ken… just called him into the bathroom and pointed at the test.

I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I was so scared of what he would tell us. But, he said everything looked good and that we should try not to worry. But the next day, he called and said my blood work showed that my progesterone level was a little low and he was going to prescribe some medication to bring it back up. Ken and I had already decided not to tell anyone about this baby until we got past that critical three-month mark, but the only pharmacy in town that could compound the medication the way Dr. Brown wanted it was the one where one of Ken’s nieces worked as a pharmacy tech. So much for keeping it a secret. We were due to go on vacation the next week and Dr. Brown said there was no reason for us not to go as long as I took the meds he prescribed. The only thing I clearly remember about that vacation is that I felt like I was holding my breath the whole week. I couldn’t bring myself to even consider that this pregnancy would be successful and that we would have a new little Lunsford after the first of the new year.

About a week after we got back home, I started bleeding. I had been through this twice now… I knew how it felt when my body was “letting go”. An emergency trip to the doctor confirmed what I already knew in my heart. For the third time in a row, our baby had died. Dr. Brown wanted to do another D&C, but I told him I would only let him do it if he would agree to tie my tubes at the same time. He tried to talk me out of it, but I couldn’t bear one more heartbreak, so he finally agreed. I had always wanted a houseful of kids, but for some reason, God was telling us, “Two is enough”.

I learned through the loss of our three babies that miscarriage is a subject that few people are comfortable talking about. Some of the things people said to me were simply astounding. Here are just a few that I remember…

•  “You know, miscarriage is nature’s way of taking care of a baby who would have been born deformed.”
•  “There was probably something wrong with it… God was just saving you from future heartache.”
•  “You can always have other babies.”
•  “You shouldn’t dwell on it. Just be thankful for the two children you do have.”
•  “It was God’s will.”

And my all-time favorite… spoken to me by a close family member…

• “It’s good that you lost them so early. After all, they weren’t really babies yet, only clumps of cells.”

SIGH… I guess most people, especially those who have never lost a child, don’t really know what to say, so they say things that are sometimes hurtful and dumb. Ken and I would have gladly loved and cared for ANY child we were blessed to have—even a child with birth defects or illnesses. The joy the child would have brought would have far outweighed any heartache. I am extremely thankful for the two healthy sons that Ken and I had, but that does not mean I don’t miss the three who died before I even got to see their sweet little faces. I know that there is purpose in all that God allows to happen, but I have a hard time accepting that it was His will that three of my children would die. And as far as it being better that we lost the babies so early, the Bible is very clear in Jeremiah 1:5 when it says, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you…” They were NOT just clumps of cells. They were children—mine and Ken’s children, and our grief for them has been real.

Though I never got to hold my babies, I hold them in my heart and look forward to the day when I get to hold them in my arms. Every once in a while, I get a little jealous that Ken got to meet them before I did, but I am so comforted to know that he is with our children in Heaven, while I am with our children here on earth.

We named each one of our babies. Since they went to Heaven before we could know if they were sons or daughters, the names had to be suitable for either. So we named them August Angel Lunsford, Spring Spirit Lunsford, and Summer Storm Lunsford. Each Christmas I hang angels for each of them on our tree. I want to remember them. I want their brothers to remember them. They were important. They were wanted. They were loved. They were my children.

Looking Back

               For today’s post, I am reaching WAAAAAAY back into my memory file, though the whole thing was actually triggered by a very modern-day entity—FACEBOOK.  But before I begin, I need to include the following disclaimer:

This is Melinda’s blog, written by Melinda, for the benefit of Melinda (mostly), based on Melinda’s memories.  I write it because it helps me work things out in my mind and put things that need to be behind me, behind me.  I write it to record important events that I feel have impacted my life and the lives of my family, whether I view that impact as positive or negative.  I write it because I have always dreamed of being a “writer” and this type of forum allows me to exercise my love for written expression without having to deal with the rejection of publishers and critics.  Having said all of that, if you are someone who is liable to remember things differently than me, or if you could possibly get all sideways because you think the way I remember something may put you in a negative light, then PLEASE, do us both a big favor and do not continue reading my blog.  The stories I tell are based on my memories and the feelings and emotions those memories evoked.  Both my memories and my feelings are valid,whether or not you want to acknowledge them as such and whether or not you remember things differently.

Alrighty, then… back to the post.  As have a great number of today’s society members, no matter their ages, I have succumbed to the pull of Facebook.  People use all sorts of reasons for using FB, from staying in touch with family members to re-connecting with old friends and acquaintances, to cyber-stalking.  I personally don’t care why people use FB, it is their business, after all.  I enjoy being able have conversations with people without having to actually see them or call them on the telephone.  It is nice to be kept apprised of what is happening with family members and friends too, especially the ones you don’t live near anymore.  I will admit, I check my FB page on a regular basis throughout the day.  Sometimes I join in the conversations, and other times, I just sit back and “glean” knowledge that would have otherwise been unavailable to me.  All in all, I would have to say that I consider FB to be “electronic eavesdropping”.  I am constantly amazed at the stuff people will blurt out for the whole world to see.  And, yes, I have resorted to blocking a couple of people who have “diarrhea of the brain” and post waaay TMI and then have the nerve to be upset and whine that everyone is always “in their business”.  Over all, though, I think FB is a fun and valuable tool, when used appropriately.

One of the neat things FB does, is that it will make suggestions from the friend lists of your friends of people you may know and wish to reconnect with.  That is what has triggered this particular post.  Recently, as I was on FB, a name popped up as a friend suggestion.  The name was not familiar to me, but it said that we had two friends in common, so I was curious.  Well, I clicked on the name and discovered that it was actually a guy I had known when I was a teen-ager… one that I had unfortunately spent a lot of time and effort on.  The reason I didn’t recognize the name is that he evidently goes by his first name now.  When I knew him, he was known by his middle name. 

As I realized who he was, a wave of memory washed over me.  The feelings that accompanied the memory were strong enough to make me have to stop and catch my breath.  Took me back to a place of confusion, longing, anticipation, disillusionment and deep hurt… a place I did not like re-visiting.  You see, this fellow has the distinction of being the first boy I ever loved.  And yes, it was love I felt.  People through the years have tried to convince me that I was much too young at that point to really understand about love.  And while I was very young when the whole thing started, I have always been blessed with the gift of knowing my own heart.  So, no matter what anyone else wants to call it, I did love him.

I first fell for “Joey” (not his real name) when I was fifteen.  Not really sure what made me look his way.  He had just ended a pretty serious (as serious as kids that age can be) relationship with another girl.  Something just drew me to him and I fell hard.  As things go in most teen-age circles, when word got out that I had “a thing” for Joey, two of my so-called friends decided it was their duty to go to Joey and tell him so.  After an initial awkwardness, Joey started letting me ride in his car when the “gang” went places and taking me home from church activities.  He never indicated that he liked me as anything more than a friend, but he never told me to “get lost”, so I took his attention as positive.  The more time that went by, the stronger my feelings became.  The whole thing came to a head during a week at Youth Camp.  Joey picked the third night of camp to tell me he was not interested in me “that” way.  He had all kinds of reasons, he thought there was too much of an age difference (I was 15, he was 17), he was getting ready to go off to college, he didn’t think it would be fair for me to have to wait for him. He gave me all these other “reasons”, many of them seeming to hold a promise of a relationship somewhere in the future.   It would have been so much better if he had just gone ahead and told the truth, that I was too fat and he didn’t want to have a relationship with me.  Yes, it would have been hurtful and devastating to my 15-year-old psyche, but if he had told the truth, I could have dealt with it and gotten over it.  As it was, his reasons with hidden meanings, set me up for YEARS of heartache.

So, Joey tells me halfway through camp that he doesn’t want a relationship, and I get to spend the rest of the week hurt and embarrassed.  To make it worse, he tells my sister about our conversation, supposedly so she could “comfort” me.  Well, as I’ve blogged before, my relationship with my sister was contentious, at best, so comfort is not usually what I got from her.  I don’t remember that time being any different.  So instead of being just hurt and embarrassed, I got to add humiliated to the list as well.

Now… if Joey would have left me alone and ignored me, that’s where the whole thing could have ended.  But he continued being my chauffeur service and treating me as though there might be hope for us in the future.  When summer ended and he was getting ready to go away to school, he told me that he would like for me to write to him.  Of course, I assured him that I would.  I remember that we were all going to give him a little going-away send-off.  I told my mother that I was going to the store and get him a card.  Instead of acknowledging that I was going to miss Joey when he left, her response was, “Don’t you go embarrassing him!”  SIGH…  nobody ever knew what he was telling me, so everybody just thought I was pitiful.  I guess I was.

After Joey went off to college, I wrote him, just like I promised I would.  We corresponded very regularly for that first year, and every time he would come home, he would take me places, talk to me, and lead me to believe that “our time” was coming.  In fact, that Christmas he did something that made me SURE of it.  He KISSED me!  I had just turned 16 and it was my first “real” kiss.  I was thrilled beyond belief.  I just knew that a boy wouldn’t kiss a girl like that unless she was very special to him.  Even now, at 53, I believe that it SHOULD be like that.  Kisses should mean something… they should be special… not just another way of spending time together.  I know how terribly old-fashioned that makes me sound.  But I was so young and so terribly naïve, I couldn’t see that kissing didn’t mean the same thing to Joey as it did to me.  I gave Joey credit for being a much nobler and more sensitive critter than he actually was. 

Things continued this way from the time I was 15 until after I graduated from college. Joey would spend time with me whenever he came home from school and shower me with attention and affection, making me feel special and loved.  But then he would go back to school and it would be like he had dropped off the planet.  We wrote less and less, and eventually stopped altogether.  I would make up my mind that I was DONE, and start trying to move on.   But every time I would finally get fed up and be ready for Joey to “go ahead on with himself”, he would show up at my door, take me places, hug me, kiss me, and I would be hooked all over again.  He never said that he loved me, but he said enough to keep me believing that there would be a future for us.  The closest he ever came to it was when he found out I had been dating another boy.  He got all wound up and said that he didn’t think I should see the guy anymore.  I asked him, “Why not?  You date other girls at school”, and he snapped, “Because I kind of like you!”  (I know, it makes me sigh and roll my eyeballs too, now… unfortunately, at the time, I just knew it meant he wanted to be with me.)  It must have really stroked Joey’s ego to have someone so hopelessly devoted to him.  It took me a long time to realize that I was just his “always-be-there-whenever-I-want-her” girl.  I am the one he would call when all of his other options ran out. 

I know that you are wondering why anyone would allow herself to be treated so badly for such a long time.  Well, you need to understand that I grew up believing that fat girls didn’t deserve and shouldn’t expect the same kind of love that the thin girls received.  A girl could have a face that would stop a train, but if she was thin, she was automatically prettier than the fat girls.  I was truly convinced that this kind of hand-me-down attention was the best I could hope for.

I guess the last time I saw Joey, I was 22 or 23.  I had FINALLY decided that I was “done”, and had actually made great strides in finally putting Joey in my past.  Then one night, he showed up at my front door and said he needed to talk to me.  I let him in and he started the conversation with, “You know, I just don’t know what it was that EVER got us started.  I never wanted to be anything more than friends… I believe it was always you pushing for more.”  I said, “Joey, I have a lot of male friends and NONE of them ever kissed me the way you always did.  That didn’t seem like friendship to me.”  He gave me a stupidly sheepish grin and said, “Well, maybe you are right about that.  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”  Then he took a big breath and said, “I still want to see you, but I think it’s only fair to let you know that you are not the only horse in the race.”  REALLY??!!  First he wants to blame our whole pitiful relationship all on me and now he’s calling me a horse?!  I couldn’t come up with any kind of intelligent reply to such a STUPID statement, so I didn’t say anything.  He got ready to leave and asked if it would be okay for him to give me a hug.  I told him I didn’t think it would be a good idea.  He left, and as far as I can remember, that’s the last time I ever saw him.    It was probably about three weeks later that his mother showed up at church with a newspaper clipping of Joey’s wedding announcement. I guess that whole last conversation must have been a stab of conscience for Joey, or some “loose ends” he felt needed tying up before he moved on with his life.

So why, you ask, am I digging all this up NOW?!  Well, when Joey’s name popped up on FB, it brought back all the memories and feelings and it made me MAD!  I hate that he strung me along like he did with a few stolen kisses here and there and pseudo-promises of something more, but never admitted to the outside world that he ever was even interested in me.  It made it look for all those years that I was just a pitiful fat girl chasing someone I could never have.  And I hate that I grew up believing that such treatment was all I deserved and could hope for.  It colored the way I felt about life, about love and about myself.    I deserved better than that! 

The whole thing made me terribly suspicious of men and their motives.  I remember the first time Ken went to put his arm around me.  I jumped up and pointed my finger at him and said, “Listen, I don’t know where you think this is going, but I am interested in a real relationship, not just fun and games!  If you are just playing with me, then you need to head on down the road!”  Now, most men, especially that early in a relationship, would have tipped their hats and ridden off into the sunset.  Ken just looked at me with those blue eyes that I so loved and said three words… “I ain’t playing.”  (SIGH… it still makes me smile when I remember.)  It was the first time I ever saw myself through Ken’s eyes – eyes of unconditional love.  THAT is the kind of love I deserved!

So, what important life lessons can I take away from all of this?  I guess the most important lessons are ones that I have been trying to teach my sons:

1.       A woman’s worth is determined by her heart, not by the size or shape    of her body.

2.      Girls look at things like kissing a lot differently than boys do.  They give it much more weight in a relationship.  Boys should be aware of this fact and treat girls with tenderness and respect.

           If I am successful in passing on these truths to my sons, I will be able to see purpose in this whole pitiful tale.  I can’t say that it was “worth it”, because it was hurtful and embarrassing and no one deserves such treatment.  But if I can keep J & B from treating a young lady the way Joey treated me, then the lessons will outweigh the pain of the memory.