Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (27 page)

Lawson was the first person I had ever loved, wholeheartedly, from the moment he entered this world — until the moment he left it.

What I wanted to do when I “grew up” changed on a regular basis. There was an astronaut phase, a doctor phase and a lawyer phase. But what I wanted to
be
remained constant. I wanted to be a wife and a mother and to have a family of my own; a family to take to the lake, to Disney World and to spend lazy days in a hammock with.

When Lawson died I didn’t know if I could do that anymore. I questioned myself and God as I tried to make sense of his death. I thought I would never be able to survive the pain a mother endures when she loses a child. The risk of losing something so precious might not be worth the heartache it could potentially bring.

Until one day I found myself thinking what my life would have been like without Lawson. My life would have been worth living, but I wouldn’t have laughed as hard or as often. I realized how much I would have missed out on if he had not been a part of my life. All of the laughter and good times were a tribute to him. Life is about making as much joy as you possibly can out of the situations you find yourself in.

I used to be a Type-A Control Freak. I worried constantly, especially when things didn’t go according to my plan. But you cannot enjoy life that way. Life is loving
and
losing people. Losing Lawson taught me that nothing is forever and that every moment counts.

All the screaming, dirty diapers, tantrum throwing and sleepless nights are worth it. It is worth every heartache and tear we shed as mothers. It is worth every labor pain, every hemorrhoid, and every humiliating weigh-in at the doctor’s office as your weight skyrockets to numbers usually reserved for linebackers and heavy-weight champs.

Because every moment counts.

I find myself thinking of Lawson from time to time, sometimes when I least expect it. I'll give Emma a big push on the tire swing and remember spinning upside down on a hammock with him, all of our siblings drunk with laughter. I'll watch Aubrey and her best buddy, John Heston, sword fighting with sticks until one of them is bleeding and crying and I am transported through time to the Murphy's red brick patio, wiping blood off of Lawson's knee and plastering a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Band-aid on his war wound.

Sadie cries out in the middle of the night and as I stumble through the darkness to her room, often before I can even think, “I wish I was still asleep.” I'll have the thought, “Lawson never got to do this.”

He is on my mind as I walk into Sadie's darkened room, and I smile as I see her. Her smile is so big and so automatic, her eyes crinkle and her pacifier falls out of her mouth revealing her gummy little mouth. I pick her up, glad to have the time to snuggle with her while the rest of the world sleeps. The inconvenience of being pulled from my warm bed is forgotten.

I climb into my rocking chair to feed her. She nestles against me with one hand propped up on my chest and her other arm wrapped around my side. She closes her eyes so tightly she looks as though she is faking sleep… playing possum.

Her face is my past and my future. I see my own baby pictures as I look at her button nose and Moon-Pie face, as round as if God drew it with a compass. I see my Grandmother in the arch of her eyebrows, “The McNeal Eyebrow” she called it. I see my older daughters and know that God didn’t break the mold when He made them. He found one so perfect, He decided to use it three times.

“Lawson never got to do this,” I think as a rogue tear slips down my cheek. He didn't get to see his own reflection in another person. He didn't get to look for his family in his child's face.

As I look at Sadie’s sleeping profile I see Blair, my sister and best friend. Her imitation so perfect I want to whisper one of our childhood secrets in her tiny ear. “Lawson would have made you laugh.” I say softly instead.

Sadie has my mother's lips, and as I gaze at her tiny face it makes me wonder whose voice will come out of her mouth when she starts to talk. She stops nursing, milk dribbling down a chin kissed with her Daddy’s dimple and hinting of her Pop Pete.

She sighs.

I sigh to inhale her sweet baby’s breath. I prop her on my shoulder to examine her more closely and to nuzzle the warmth of her cheeks.

My child.
Lawson will never get to say that.

Her hand swipes at my face; before I tuck it into her blanket I see her hands and fingernails are scale reproductions of her Daddy’s. I wonder about all the things she will use them for... sword fights, pushing swings, picking muscadines and plucking the stem out of a honeysuckle bloom. Will she get the chance to hold her own child?

Lawson didn't.

I groan as I rise from my chair to place her back in her crib, her head on my shoulder… her hand on my heart.

Every moment counts.

Every child that is brought into this world is a miracle and gift from God. The fact that two imperfect human beings can create another life is almost inconceivable. Especially once you have witnessed the fragility, innocence and perfection of a newborn. When you have held your own child’s helpless body, seen her open her mouth like a tiny little bird, trusting that someone will feed her because without you she cannot survive.

Every child that is born fills me full of hope. Hope that this world isn’t the horrible place depicted on the evening news. Hope that if something so perfect can even exist, then there is good to be found in the world.

Every child is another opportunity for us to get things right, to raise our children with a respect for God and people and with a zest for life. Every day brings a new opportunity to love our children, to laugh with them, cry with them and watch them grow. Every day with our children is an opportunity for us to learn from them, to hopefully replicate their easy acceptance of others and unconditional love for life. Every day there is an opportunity to let God use your children to sand off your own rough edges, making you more like them and ultimately more like Him.

It can be difficult to keep these things in perspective.

Life is semi-sweet, for sure. There is bitterness there, like medicine mixed in chocolate syrup and it must be swallowed whole along with the moments that flood your heart with pure joy. We can laugh, or we can cry. The choice is yours. But if I had
my
time again — I'd do it all the same.

T
his is where I'm supposed to thank all the “little people” who made this book possible, but the truth is, aside from the shorties in my house, all the people who have supported me are larger than life.

To my parents: Hank and Rachel Wiley — thank you for loving me unconditionally and taking me to the library and to Walden books, where your twenty bucks barely lasted twenty-four hours.

Shuggie you are the best mother and grandmother anyone could ever have. Ever.

Daddy, you have never been more than a phone call away. Christie thanks for putting the first Sweet Potato Queens' book in my hands when I needed desperately to laugh again. That book made me realize I could “write funny” for a living.

To my brothers, Matt Wiley and Bebo Dutton — I wouldn't have wanted to grow up being beaten down by anyone else. To Pete and Tom Wiley — read, read, read — then tell me all about it.

To The Farm People: thanks for letting me be one of y'all. Best in-laws ever.

To my sister, Blair Martin: You complete me. Seriously. Jerry Maguire stole that line from me. I don't have to say anything here to make you cry. I know you're going to do that every time you see my REAL LIVE book. Thank you for believing in me, always.

Huge thanks to Dana Frazeur, Peyton Kennedy and Blair Martin who have literally read every word I've ever written — over and over and over again. Thank you for telling me when it didn't work and for cheering me on when it did and for making me put myself “out there.” Thanks to Kathryn Dyksterhouse for proof reading while on bed rest and for being the first person to welcome me to Greenwood.

One million thanks to Peyton, brilliant editor and amazing friend, who helped me to polish this manuscript to a high shine. And to Miki McCurdy for taking fabulous pictures and editing them at lightning speed.

Thanks to my agent, Jenny Bent, for seeing potential in me, for helping me find my voice and for having the patience of Job. The fact that you believe in me and think I'm funny makes me almost believe it myself.

Thank you to my closest friends: Lizzie Powers (aka Sister Wife) for helping me raise my kids, waxing my eyebrows and saving me thousands of dollars’ worth of psychotherapy. And to The LOLers: Blair Martin, Kasey Colvin, Natalie Brown, Peyton Kennedy and Stacey Hamner — I couldn't have asked for a better support group. You sickens literally make me LOL everyday and help me keep perspective when I'm having those Debbie Downer type of days. To Amy Dill for being my 1-800-Dial-A-Friend since I could hold a phone.

To the writing community, especially my Tweeps: I never knew that writers were such nice people until I started pretending I was one of you. Thanks for playing along with me and for giving me advice, responding to my emails and making me feel normal. And to Pauline Campos of Aspiring Mama for your mad PR skillz.

Special thanks to Susan Reinhardt, you were the first writer I ever reached out to and you helped me more than you could ever know. I consider you a mentor and can't wait for your next book.

To Celia Rivenbark, Jill Conner Browne, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor and Jenny Lawson: for being more gracious than I ever could have imagined in my wildest dreams, and trust me — I've dreamed about knowing y'all for a long time.

To my friends and family I've collected in my travels: Gena James, Connie and Buck Whitmire and family, my Tuesday morning Bible study girls and my family at WPC. You can never know how much your love, support and friendship have meant to me.

To my readers: thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for every email, every comment and every shared story. I love being a part of your life.

And last but certainly not least: Zeb, Aubrey, Emma and Sadie: I wouldn't want to do this with anybody else.

About the author

Robin O'Bryant is a writer and stay-at-home-mom to three daughters born within four years. She finally figured out where babies come from and got herself under control. Robin survives the hilarity of motherhood
by making fun of herself in her self-syndicated humor column,
Robin's Chicks
and on her blog by the same name. Visit her site and learn to:
breastfeed behind your back*, how to talk to your daughters about man parts, and how to write a gold fish obituary. She tweets compulsively as
@robinobryant
and over shares daily on Facebook as
Robin Wiley O'Bryant
. Come point and laugh.

*Only applies to lactating women with a DD cup or larger.