Christina Gabrielle

Another anniversary of sorts.

I've been a mother almost as long as I've been a wife. Christina was born on July 10, 1985, three days after our first year anniversary.

Her birthday takes me back to a small apartment in Colorado Springs many years ago. Pregnancy was fun the first time. Everything was new and exciting and we eagerly anticipated her birth. Keith felt confident we’d adapt to parenting just fine. How hard could raising children be?

I studied pregnancy, nutrition, and parenting. I ate well, exercised, attended childbirth classes, chose names, and outfitted the baby's room. If ever a woman was ready, I was ready. I was very naive.

Nothing went as expected. After a LONG difficult labor, during which Keith declared we would never do this again, the doctor extracted her with forceps and whisked her off to intensive care. She couldn’t breathe right and spent five days connected to tubes and wires.

She pitched her first fit her first day. She refused to nurse and I didn’t know how to force the issue. She immediately wanted to be in charge when she came home. I wondered if they could have possibly sent us home with the wrong baby.

My body felt turned inside out. My stomach looked like bread dough. Waking up every couple hours left me exhausted and crabby. She was demanding and despite everything I thought I knew before, I didn’t seem to know much. I was overwhelmed and then some.

My college education had been lacking. Chances to use trigonometry since graduation have been diddly. And they never once addressed things like stretch marks, cotton versus disposable diapers, or temper tantrums.

Yet I loved her. Immediately. Completely. Unconditionally. I wouldn’t have traded my discomforts and frustrations for life without her. Nothing feels as good as holding a baby. To watch them smile, laugh, grow and learn. To see their personalities unfold. To know that my love is as essential for their emotional growth as food is for their body.

I love Christina more than she could possibly know or understand, but we have butted heads since day one. She’s always been determined, independent, and fearless. Not naughty, just high-strung, high-maintenance, and likes doing things her way. It’s exhausting raising a strong-willed child. Keith jokes that they gave her too much oxygen at birth.

Motherhood wasn’t what I expected. I prayed I was doing things right. I wouldn’t get a second chance to raise her.

I struggled, second-guessed, lost my temper, cried, and made mistakes. I put one foot in front of the other, took one day at a time, prayed a lot, sought advice, and stuck it out.

We blinked and she turned nineteen, ready to leave and try her wings.

Children grow up, leave home, and we nervously monitor their progress. We watch them push off from the shore of home, safety, and security, and hold our breath as they sail across choppy waters, hoping they’ll land safely on the shore of stable, responsible adulthood. We hope they're properly equipped and will make good choices when we’re not there to do it for them.

Christina called home three years ago. "Mom, Dad, I’m sorry for being hard to live with. I’m sorry for being disrespectful, disobedient, and not thinking you knew anything. Thanks for raising me in a Christian home and giving me a good foundation. I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. I hope we can have a better relationship."

We sat in shock. This was not the same child we’d sent to college.

Finally a harvest. Seeds planted and faithfully tended for years at last bearing fruit. Her praise and thanks meant the world. A precious, satisfying reward for a long, hard labor.

For years our conversations were short, one-sided, and full of conflict, but we've finally gone beyond that. She calls often now and converses like an adult. Like we’re friends. Like she likes me.

I’m proud of her. She's done amazing, interesting things. I’m in awe of her adventurous personality. She still has some rough edges and lessons to learn but she's a work in progress.

Raising strong-willed children isn’t easy but like any worthwhile endeavor, I need to persevere and keep plugging away. I need to let God write my children’s story, and trust the final outcome to Him who does all things well and loves them more than I possibly ever could.



Happy 24th Birthday, and many more.