My First Love

"Isn't he lovely

Isn't he wonderful

Isn't he precious

Less than one minute old."

I took license to change pronouns---"he" for "she"---to the love lyrics Stevie Wonder penned about "Ayisha," his firstborn daughter.  I too was in the operating theater when my first grandson entered this earth-plane.  I held him tightly as a nurse took us to the newborn nursery wing.  And while singer Roberta Flack spoke to an adult paramour, her sentiments also described this same Grandson:

"The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes,

And the moon and the stars

Were gifts you gave

To the dark and the endless sky."

Finally, I am ready to "tell all" about my First Love.

Mystery cloaked everything.  Its dramatic cachet centered on when the arrival would occur, including the guesstimated month and date.  I knew nothing of  his existence until my older, teen-aged Daughter entered her sixth month of pregnancy.  Even then I heard of it from my best friend, who had been cajoled into breaking the consequential news.  The most incredulously asked question to (and about) me became, "What do you mean you didn't know she was pregnant and she was living with you? How could you not know!"  

Well, I didn't know!  Completed taken aback, I sank into a stupor that almost took me out.  Except I didn't have the energy.  Like wintry smoke, numbness wafted silently through bone, muscle, and sinew, leaving me defenseless.  How do I tell Mother, siblings, churchgoers? Not to mention the chorus of erstwhile acquaintances who sang endless, doom-filled dirges. As Mom, I now wore the scarlet letter "F," for Failure. How could I have allowed such blatant delinquency! Such malfeasance would never have happened to flawless mom, June Cleaver, of "Leave it to Beaver" fame. 

When I was not paralyzed, anger toward my best friend consumed me.  She bore devastating news of my Daughter's duplicity.  I carried anger at finger-pointing, gossiping "friends," at the world! My Daughter decided she wanted to give the baby up to adoption, so we went through a series of interviews with an out-of-city agency.  Time being of essence, we assumed we had fewer than three months to consummate an adoption.  We met the pre-approved prospective parents and waited.  Thankfully, the private school where she was completing her senior year, did not suspect the pregnancy.

Full-throated and healthy,  he announced himself on September 4th, weighing six pounds, 14 ounces.  Although we knew that within twenty-four hours, his new parents would take him home to a different city, I had been allowed to carry him to the nursery.  My daughter did not see him, at least that's what we thought.  It turns out that somehow she had seen him through the window.  How, I don't know.  When I came to pick her up the following morning, she tearfully, yet adamantly, told me that she had changed her mind.

She wanted to keep the baby, she now declared! She had seen him! He's beautiful! She wanted her baby! Oh. My. Goodness.  The agency social worker had been informed and a flurry of activity followed.  My daughter and I talked: she believed I wanted the baby to be adopted, but she just couldn't! I don't know what had precipitated those thoughts; throughout, I had remained neutral and as supportive as possible.  Guilt and fears poured forth; she'd never forgive herself if she gave up her baby.  She would get a job, work, and enroll in a community college to take care of herself and her baby! She'd do anything to keep him!

I left and went baby shopping.  After naming him (for Philip in the Bible and Anthony for a dear friend), we brought Philip Anthony Clark home the following day, to a nursery that two days earlier had been the guest room.  His crying, cooing, and gurgling became pretty much nonstop music to our ears.  His Mother delayed college for one semester, then went away as previously planned.  I enrolled as a love-besotted Grandmother, Chief Bottle Maker and Washer, and Consummate Diaper Changer.

Philip taught me what love is.  I thought my husband-to-be, whom I met through a colleague and had fallen in love with at first sight, typified love.  Mine was a "loveatfirstsight" decision.  The birth of each of my two daughters generated  a suffusion of inflexible Mommy Love.  I stood watch as the fierce Mama Bear.

Philip taught me pure, unadulterated love.  He introduced Agape love, the First Corinthians 13 love that Saint Paul defined. I didn't know it then, of course. In retrospect, I understand that Philip came packaged in faith, hope, love, joy and peace. Given freely.  Received graciously. Every fiber of his being radiated love.  I was free to love, no strings attached! A chance  to love unadorned.

Finding a babysitter came easily.  A neighbor suggested a stay-at-home, graphic artist who welcomed Philip into the safe haven she  provided for three other babies.  Perfect! Unless I was late  picking him up. Philip seemed to know when I was more than 15 minutes late.  At eight and nine months,  he seemed to know when I was late.  No explanation about heavy traffic or having to finish a phone call counted. He'd barely acknowledge my rushing in practically singing "hello! "Gramma's sorry!"  He'd ignore me on the short drive home, seemingly preoccupied by the cars that drove past.

The thaw would begin as I got him comfortable and ready for a snack of cookies and milk.  He'd finally relent a bit and engage with me after dinner.  Friends again, when he played with Rubber Ducky in a tub filled with toys and splashed water everywhere!  Everything was copacetic by the time I'd tuck him in and read It's Not Easy Being a Bunny."  It didn't take long for Philip to teach me the discipline of timeliness.

I had taken Philip to his pediatrician in late June.  Plus, I was still taking it easy after a routine surgery on a Saturday in July.  We had enjoyed long hours together.  When his Mother came to bathe him and tuck him in, my last memory was of him reaching for me as she carried him out my room.  The next morning, Sunday, i got up early to run to the store for milk and cereal.  When I returned, I saw a crowd of people standing near the pool, my daughters among them.  Why are they outside? I've told them never to leave the baby alone, I fumed!  My daughters were bent over and neighbors crowded around them.  

How I parked the car and rushed to them, I can't remember.  I only heard a neighbor saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Dorothie, but the girls just found Philip dead in his crib! What? You must be mistaken! No! No! No! It can't be! Noooooooo! Somehow, I had the presence of mind to call Mother, who called the Pastor of my church.  Soon our home filled up.  It was if someone had stuffed cotton in my ears because every word spoken was muted.

"You know the Lord, He moves in mysterious ways
His wonders , they are to perform
He plants His footsteps way out on the sea
You know He rides n on every storm

I remember Mother coming in, wrapping me in her arms, and rocking me.  Through tears, she half-hummed, half-sang one of her favorites and kept me cocooned for the rest of the day and into the evening.  I woke the next morning to The William Brothers singing:

His ways, they are hard to understand sometimes

No matter, no matter how hard we try, oh Lord

Sometimes I wonder why He allows some things to happen to me

But, oh I'll find out, I'll find out by and by

I don't know why I have to cry sometimes

I don't know why Lord I have to sigh sometimes

But there's gonna be a perfect day

Trouble get out of my way

I don't know why

But I'll know by and by."