by Linda Byler
When Laura finally did leave the safety of Stephen’s shoulder, she sat a bit stiffly on Lizzie’s lap. Mam brought the new baby for her to meet. Lizzie couldn’t help but notice the haughty indifference with which she met her new brother, her back held stiff and straight. She glanced at him with no emotion before burying her head in Lizzie’s shoulder and crying her little heart out.
Lizzie quickly bent her head to console her. Stephen reached for her, and Mam laughed some more, telling them that Laura’s behavior was perfectly normal for a child. She would likely be a bit difficult for a few weeks until she became accustomed to the idea of sharing her parents with someone else.
After her family left to go back home, Lizzie had a few moments of unsteadiness, knowing those feelings of inadequacy would return unless she was strong. Right now it was very much like keeping a boat afloat on choppy seas, bravely keeping her eyes on the lighthouse. God was there, she supposed, and would keep her from sinking whenever a wave of despair hit. She would not allow herself to sink or to be intimidated by feelings of inadequacy.
Mary and Barbara were a great help. To them, there was almost nothing that rivaled the blessings of motherhood and babies. It was all a gift from God and not something to allow to bury you. They didn’t think the way Lizzie did. They had a whole bright attitude about having children, which amazed her.
They actually thought of babies as a very special gift, a blessing straight from heaven. Why wouldn’t someone want lots of precious babies? They were so cute and special and sweet, binding a family forever with bonds of love.
So was it any wonder then, that Lizzie felt very much like a queen in her own little world when she slipped on her navy blue dress, pinned her black apron around her waist, adjusted her white covering, and bade Mary and Barbara good-bye? They had helped her view motherhood in such a different light so that the resistance that had made her first year with Laura quite miserable completely vanished.
She was a mother now, a real mother with two children and a house. She had a husband beside her, and, if things got really scary and crazy, a mother who laughed at babies and said they were a lot tougher than they looked. New babies never frightened Mam, even when they choked or got sick or wouldn’t nurse or had diarrhea. There was always something that worked, and if nothing else, you whisked them off to the doctor in town and he’d know what to do.
In the weeks that followed, Lizzie found it so much easier to cope with having this second baby. On one afternoon, however, Laura simply refused to cooperate with anyone, even Mam, throwing fits until Lizzie spanked her. Afterwards, Laura cried brokenheartedly, and Lizzie pitied her so much she started crying herself, telling Mam she was going to take a nap. But in truth, she lay on her bed with little, stubborn, angry Maidsy beside her and cried and cried and cried.
But that was it. Never again did she come close to feeling so overwhelmed. She found that when she got up in the morning, her first thoughts were with the children and not of herself and how she felt.
She also found that you could survive quite well on five or six hours of sleep. And Laura learned to love Andy more with each passing day, which made Lizzie’s life quite a bit easier. Stephen was so kind and attentive. He was a very good father to Laura, even if he felt clumsy and ill at ease with newborn Andy. He could do almost anything with Laura, and she would listen amazingly well.
Stephen built his furniture shop as an addition to the barn. He made different articles of furniture in the evenings. He loved the work, learning as he went along, making hutch cupboards and desks, among other pieces. He would start a fire in the woodstove, then bundle Laura up in her coat, the little navy blue one with a round collar that his sister, Sharon, had made for her. He tied her little white scarf securely around her head, straightened up, and took her small brown hand in his bigger one. Together they would go to the shop while Lizzie cleared away the supper dishes.
Laura would play quite contentedly beneath his worktable for hours. She played with blocks of wood or shavings, along with any tool he would allow her to have. When they returned, smelling of wood shavings and wood smoke, Laura would smile happily and have her bath willingly, telling Lizzie in her halting language about her evening with Dat.
Andy, however, was a bit of a problem when it was time for his feeding. He would not always nurse well, so Lizzie became a bit flustered about it again. She tried different ways of holding him, but she became increasingly frustrated at his lack of skill. He refused to take a pacifier.
One day when Lizzie was feeling particularly stressed, she heard footsteps on the front porch and then a small knock. The door opened a bit and someone called, “Are you home, Lizzie?”
Edna! Lizzie recognized her voice immediately. Her cousin Edna from Jefferson County!
Instantly she was at the door, warmly greeting her favorite cousin, Edna, who had walked up the hill from the farm where Uncle Elis had gone to pay a visit to Dat and Mam. Edna was also married and had two children, and because she lived in Jefferson County, Lizzie did not get to see her or her family very often. So it was a special treat for Edna to come to see her new little boy.
They settled themselves in the living room, talking as fast as they could until they both laughed, suddenly unsure if they were actually listening to what the other was saying. Edna exclaimed over Andy, then sat back on the sofa as Laura began to nurse him.
She clucked in her usual frustration, then looked at Edna. “Why can’t I nurse a baby right?” she asked.
Edna’s eyes narrowed as she watched Lizzie’s hurried attempts.
“Well, for one thing, sit back. Relax. Put up your feet and sing as loud as you can!”
They both burst out laughing, although Lizzie felt like crying.
“I’m serious, Lizzie. You’re way too nervous. No wonder he doesn’t nurse. You’re holding him as tightly as you possibly can!”
“I’m just not good at this,” Lizzie wailed.
“Yes, you are. Learn to relax and then try it.”
With Edna’s guidance, Lizzie did begin to see what she meant. Frustrated, she was holding her baby much too tightly. He kept squirming and crying, trying to free himself from her hold.
After Edna’s visit, the situation vastly improved. By the time Andy was a few months old, Lizzie could finally understand why mothers nursed their babies and didn’t use formula. Lizzie guessed she was just not quite a natural mother the way some women were, like Emma and Mandy. Or Mam. Or almost anyone else.
She had to learn by trial and error and lots of self-inflicted hardships. She wasn’t naturally inclined to be a calm, serene person when it came to having babies, no matter how Mary and Barbara made her feel. But she was learning. She no longer thought that having a baby was an affliction, something terrible that you tried to avoid as determinedly as possible.
It was just all in one’s head. She had to stop worrying and relax, as Edna had shown her, and each new problem would eventually take care of itself. That thought was extremely comforting.
Chapter 24
THE YEARS PASSED, MUCH as time passes for any family. The day came when Lizzie had her fortieth birthday, which made her feel very old. In fact, the thought of being halfway through her years here on earth was quite alarming. Didn’t most people die between 70 and 90 years of age? She had better do some very serious thinking, that was all there was to it.
Was she prepared to die anytime soon? Didn’t people say it was all downhill after 40? Her side often hurt a lot; in fact, quite often and severely, now that she thought about it. She was at the age where people got cancer or pneumonia or arthritis and became quite sick and died.
She didn’t know exactly how one went about preparing to die. Just walk into the living room, sit down on a chair, look up at the ceiling, and ponder all your sins, she supposed. But when she did that, she felt so hopeless, the amount of sins that piled up.
Her worst sins, she felt quite sure, were her lack of patience, her love of beautiful things, and wanting ever
ything perfect all the time. She yelled at the children, six in total now. She also talked about people behind their backs. Honestly, Lizzie thought, she was hopeless, she really was.
She had often decided to stop saying anything negative about a person, ever, but it had only lasted for a day, maybe less, before she started gossiping again. The same thing happened when it came to yelling at her children, although, she reasoned, that was getting better as she became older, so she didn’t really know how serious that was in God’s eyes.
So, as hopeless as it all seemed, this trying to be good enough to get to heaven on your own, fortunately there was grace. She did believe Jesus died on the cross, shedding his blood for everybody. That was the only hope of salvation, the only boost to Lizzie’s confidence when she thought about dying. It was tremendously reassuring.
So turning 40 years old increased her faith in Jesus’ power of salvation. She grasped more fully the futility of trying to be perfect so God would like you, as she had so often tried in her younger years. She guessed God knew her nature. After all, hadn’t he given it to her? He would mold her and shape her the way he saw that was best.
That was comforting but often hard to grasp, although Mam insisted that was how it was. Mam knew a lot about the Bible because, for as long as Lizzie could remember, she read it every morning. Lizzie could never get into the habit of reading her Bible every day. Sometimes reading your Bible was boring, and you just read it to ease your conscience because you knew it was a good thing. Sometimes when you sat down to read it, instantly pressing thoughts or worries crowded in, and you were reading but not even comprehending one tiny little thing. Lizzie supposed that was the devil trying to keep you from doing something that was right and good.
That spring, on the third day of April when Andy was not quite 16 years old, Christopher James was born. He was a big boy, weighing almost 10 pounds, with large wide-set eyes like Stephen’s.
Lizzie was still, at the age of 40, as happy and appreciative of Mary Swarey, the midwife, as she ever had been. Mary’s sister, Barbara, the other midwife, had married a widower from another community and went to live with him and his family. Mary’s daughters had come to help her, which was much the same as having Barbara there.
Stephen wanted to name his little son Neil. Lizzie thought she had never heard of such a dull name as Neil, but she didn’t make too many arguments against it, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Stephen was so proud of his new son. As it was, they soon agreed on Christopher as his name, but then, when they returned home, Laura was a bit miffed because she wanted that name for her own son someday. She was 17 years old now, and, of course, was thinking about these things, although Lizzie thought that was a bit dense. What if she chose not to get married until she was 24 or more?
And so Christopher, a strapping little boy, joined the family. Andy was thrilled to have a brother, although it hardly seemed as if he was a real honest-to-goodness brother with the age difference. When Andy held Christopher he seemed a bit unsure of himself, uncomfortable even, and was glad to hand him over to one of his eager sisters who were much happier holding a baby.
“Babies just aren’t my thing,” he admitted ruefully and went on his way.
Lizzie felt as if seven children was the right amount. Her quiver was full, as the Bible said. Stephen was more than thrilled to have another son, a small boy to tag around with him when he was actually old enough to have a grandson.
And wasn’t life like that? Lizzie mused. As you aged, you naturally became mellower, more patient, not as quick to lose your temper when things went wrong. If you thought about it, the youngest person in the family profited by having parents who were more willing to accept the ways of a child. Before, when she was younger, she hadn’t quite realized that a young child is exactly that, a little person who is not perfect. She had expected perfection from her older children, even when it seemed to be a losing proposition.
So she had teenagers, school-aged children, and a baby. Her daughter, Emily, was six years old and would be attending school in the fall, and here was Lizzie, 40 years old with an infant to care for and no little ones to run for a diaper or a pacifier.
Laura was a schoolteacher now at the new school the community had built on Stephen’s parents’ land along the winding country road that passed in front of the big house. Stephen had been dead set against Laura teaching school, saying she would never make a teacher with her lack of self-confidence. He reminded Lizzie about the fact that Laura couldn’t say a poem at the Christmas program in school without crying. How in the world did Lizzie expect her to teach school?
Lizzie insisted that Laura was quite capable. Didn’t she have the same Mennonite teacher for all eight years of school? She was taught well, consistently having been given work that challenged her. Of course, she could teach school.
And Laura did. She taught school for eight years after that and enjoyed her time in school immensely. Andy went to work on Stephen’s construction crew. Lizzie and Stephen’s daughter, Becky, taught school for two years, then worked for a landscaper after that. Trials and troubles, laughter and tears came and went in the big house. Life was much the same for Stephen, Lizzie, and the children as it was for everyone else.
The wooden rockers on the front porch were filled with friends, neighbors, Lizzie and the girls, and sometimes Otis, the big black Labrador Retriever. Crocks and other planters filled with impatiens and geraniums lined the porch, the sun rose and set, each day bringing new challenges and inspiration.
As Lizzie grew older, she often sat on the porch to unwind. Every morning in good weather she drank her coffee on the rocker that faced west, thinking about things and musing about life in general. That porch corner was her mainstay, her sanctuary before starting the day.
Sometimes Stephen joined her, which reminded Lizzie that they were getting older. Hopefully, they would be able to live the remainder of their years growing old together, sitting on these very same porch rockers, finding greater portions of peace as they aged. Wasn’t that what life was all about, learning to love more fully, becoming a person who quite naturally became more loving and closer to God?
Things like open stairways and neck reins on horses’ harnesses and porch railings and everything Lizzie had cared so intensely about no longer held quite the significance they had in the moment. That was just how life was.
She was even making peace with her weight, that ever-present source of consternation and serious frustration. How could a person weigh so much and feel so skinny and hungry? It was one of the biggest mysteries of life. It wasn’t that she sat down and ate a whole package of Oreo cookies or anything like that. She tried to eat healthfully and responsibly. But she couldn’t really help it if she wasn’t quite full after having eaten a sandwich and ended up making part of another one and eating that, too.
Food was such a comfort, such a cozy thing to have when worries assailed you. All you had to do was make a toasted cheese sandwich with plenty of butter, the Velveeta cheese dripping off your fingers as you ate it, and the world instantly became a better place. But if you weighed a lot, then eventually you’d just have to accept that you were fat. Lizzie was not an accomplished dieter. She could cut way back on her food intake, lose five pounds with the best of them, eat a piece of cake, and regain the entire five pounds in no time flat.
She faced a losing proposition from the start, that’s all there was to it. Mam and Dat Glick had both been heavy in their early years, and large uncles and aunts abounded everywhere on Lizzie’s family tree. Right there you had it, and she didn’t care what anyone said. If your ancestors had a weight problem, nine times out of 10, so would you. That was the way it was. So to try and be thin when you knew it meant that you’d never enjoy the foods you loved was far too depressing, and anyway, what did it matter?
Stephen loved her the way she was, which was a huge blessing right there. She would absolutely hate to be married to someone who watched every bite she put in her mouth, raising his eyebrows
and sniffing, the way men do when they don’t approve of someone.
Stephen never made her feel unattractive, although she knew full well she often was. Especially when she wore a dichly, that small triangular piece of handkerchief, to do work around the outside. When Lizzie wore that, her whole ears were exposed, and not just part of them as they were when she wore a covering.
Ears continued to grow as long as you live. So did your nose. But especially ears, and Lizzie’s were not small. In fact, her earlobes were rather long and fat, which that made her feel very homely. But that was all right. Stephen didn’t think she was homely, but Lizzie knew her girls thought so, the way they tried to help her pin her dichly on just so, sniffing a bit and trying not to laugh.
That was the thing about having teenage girls. They certainly kept Lizzie humble, or tried to. But she didn’t go down easily. She was like a balloon that is squeezed, but just keeps popping up some other place because it still has air!
Lizzie supposed that’s just how it was for everyone with daughters. They just kept on correcting you all the time. Even the way you pronounced words. She had always been proud of the fact that she could pronounce words correctly. She had been very good at vocabulary in school, read books all her life, and, actually, always thought of herself as fairly intelligent. Until Laura grew up. Then it was one correction after another, and Lizzie lived for the day when she could correct Laura about how she pronounced a word. It was all in good humor, and they didn’t actually fight about it. They just let each other know when the other said a word and it didn’t sound quite right.
And so, Lizzie had large ears, was overweight, and seldom pronounced all her words correctly, according to Laura, who really didn’t know everything. Lizzie sincerely hoped she would always remember to laugh at herself, because life is so much easier if you didn’t get too dead serious about trivial things.
That’s what caused big bad feelings, she decided, and so she hoped to enjoy the rest of her journey of life with a good sense of humor about most things and a smile on her face. Anything else was of the devil, Mam would say. And, whether Lizzie admitted it or not, even at age 40, she knew that what Mam said still counted.
