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| Becky and Kelly Underwood Easter 1976 |
April is
synonymous with birdsong: pregnant robins who proudly carry the title of our
State Bird. There’s nothing sweeter than waking before dawn to a cheerful chorus
of red-breasted mothers-to-be.
I
related to their song this morning when a plump robin landed on a limb outside my
study window. Wednesday, April 5, 1975, the morning I waddled into Crittenton
Hospital in Rochester, came to mind.
Three weeks overdue with my second child, Dr. Johnson
decided to induce labor. Since our family lived forty-five minutes south from
the hospital, I agreed and packed for the night. Devoted to my first attempt
with natural childbirth, Mel and I dropped off Rebecca, our four-year old daughter,
with a sister in Troy.
In 1970, the obstetrician who assisted in
Rebecca’s birth ordered Twilight Sleep during my labor. She consequently preferred
sleeping to nursing. Engorgement ensued, the first of many obstacles that foiled
my commitment to breastfeed.
Second time around, older and wiser, I listened when a
friend recommended Dr. Johnson and his OB-GYN team who offered Lamaze classes
to their patients and husbands. What hooked Mel was the steak and lobster
dinner the hospital staff served the father and mother before they left for
home with their baby.
The Lamaze movement connected me to La Leche League,
an international organization that advocates for breastfeeding mothers. The local
group sustained a hotline and monthly meetings hosted in members’ residences.
Rebecca, who chose the name Becky in kindergarten, enjoyed
my Lamaze breathing exercises. She’d sit before me and close her eyes while I
breathed into her face.
On our short drive from my sister’s house to the
hospital, I asked Mel, “If it’s a girl, what do you want to name her?”
“Not another Bible name,” he said.
“You don’t like the sound of Rebecca and Rachel?”
“No.”
Considering my Irish roots, I asked, “What about the
name Kelly?”
“Better.”
I delivered Kelly that afternoon without sedatives.
She nursed vigorously on the delivery table.
My husband suggested Elizabeth for Kelly’s middle name.
Obviously, he didn’t recall the New Testament reference to John the Baptist’s
mother.
That night, one of April’s ice storms blew in. Alone
in my postnatal room, I couldn’t sleep for joy and longing to unwrap Kelly
Elizabeth for Rebecca Jane to touch. I ached for my children, husband, and bed.
The fresh April air.
Today, mother robins revive these desires, remind me
not all fledglings survive when they leave the nest. No matter our diligent feeding
and watch over them, many snares await the wing in its flight for independence.
On the eve of Kelly’s birth, although she’s 2,000
miles away, I see and feel her in my arms when I look out our windows, or walk our
little farm and along Stoney Creek. For wherever there is a tree or shrub, the atmosphere
teems with life and song.
Dear Reader, April is synonymous with birth, a tear fallen
for tenderness lost. Rebecca’s hand ever reaching for Kelly’s, and never
touching.
