On a Sunday in April
He was born on a warm Sunday morning in April. I was both sad that I missed church and relieved to finally hold my firstborn son in my arms. Before he was born we didn’t know if he would be a boy or a girl. I had a very early ultrasound so we chose not to find out. I was a preschool teacher that year, and as I worked with four and five-year-olds I wondered what my little child would be like.
The year I was expecting him the world seemed to be in chaos. On September 11, 2001, I was out on the playground with my class when my assistant told me the north tower of the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane. I remember slowly kicking at the tiny pebbles on the ground as I studied my gray and teal sketchers while wondering, where is the World Trade Center? An alarm filled my mind as we learned, within fifteen minutes, in New York City, a second plane had hit the other tower of the World Trade Center. The children lined up to go back into the classroom when I felt the panic rise inside. The whole day is still vivid in my mind.
After work Brad and I gathered at our Pastor’s house to watch the horrible news of two more plane crashes, one hitting the Pentagon and another missing its target and crashing into a field in Pennsylvania. No one even said a word. We just watched the repeated video of the Twin towers collapsing on LIVE television. I will never forget the cries of the news reporters in the wake of the collapse, as we all hoped the victims trapped inside could somehow be rescued. I struggled as I pondered: What was happening to our country, the invincible U.S.A? As we realized terrorists were to answer for the tragic loss of life the question taunted me, What kind of world was my firstborn child being born into?
Gas prices increased to almost four dollars per gallon making the nation feel insecure and vulnerable. Such a national feeling sunk into my own outlook. I realize now that I don’t carry boys well through pregnancy. Emotionally speaking, I am not myself, but at the time I was just plain miserable. The months crawled by it seemed. Finally, the long winter broke into a warm spring.
Brad and I had just bought our first house. I spent my free moments painting the baby’s room sky blue with white puffy clouds and pink, yellow, blue, and white stamped stars. My cousin had made a quilt for the little one that I used as inspiration for the room. As the due date approached the doctor was concerned about my blood pressure. Working with pre-schoolers was stressful and I found myself counting the days, hours, and minutes till I could be released on maternity leave.
I was scheduled to be induced to deliver him on the morning of April 14th, but my water broke the night before. We will always testify to my water breaking as being an answer to prayer because I didn’t want to be induced. And when I say I didn’t want to be induced, I mean I dreaded the thought. I had read in, What to Expect when you are Expecting, by Heidi Murkoff, about the negative things that could happen in induction. I wanted a natural birth and guided by my Lamaze class I was optimistic all I needed was to go into labor naturally, so we prayed.
God answered.
Still, the delivery was no cakewalk. Though my water broke I was not ready for the long contractions or the many nurses coming in and out of the room. I was a young Christian woman and being “nice” was important to me even in the delivery room. I was vexed by the crowd of student nurses “helping out” as I was trying to manage this pain. And the pain…
I literally was cursing Eve for eating the blasted fruit in the garden! I mean, come on Eve, Really???
Finally, around 10:30A.M, he was born. Isaiah Caleb Singleton. We were so proud. The wonder of a baby being born is like nothing else. Physically I wasn’t well, as the delivery proved to be the hardest thing I had experienced in all of my 24 years. It would prove to be the worst delivery experience of any of my four children’s births. But the pain was immediately cast aside as I held my precious little son.
He was beautiful and I prayed with humble tears.
“Lord, help me to raise this sweet baby boy, I don’t know what I am doing.”
He brought our whole family together. As the first grandchild on the Singleton side, he was constantly held and talked to. His big brown eyes beheld a family that adored him, but even from the beginning, he had a strong voice. He cried out so loud we could hear him in the nursery at the hospital. Even then I knew he would be a leader.
When I think back to those early days I remember the insecurity I felt. I wasn’t sure what to do with this tiny little baby. I felt suddenly more vulnerable than I had ever felt in my life, but I was determined to learn how to be the best mother for him. In a little less than two years, he became a big brother, and then before he turned four he had another little sister. Within those toddler years, he grew more intelligent and helpful as he shared his world with two sisters.
Isaiah was a late bloomer. In the fall of 2002, I joined M.O.P.S. (Mothers of Preschoolers) a mother support group. As I gathered around the table with other young moms we talked about the milestones our babies were hitting. The problem for Isaiah was being born with a big head. This made it hard for the little darling to roll over, crawl, and later walk. At the time I just sat quietly as my new friends boasted of their little wonders moving like acrobats across the floor. Secretly, I prayed Isaiah through each milestone, and he never met one early.
He army crawled across the room for months. His style was a single-arm scoot. From six months of age, he was determined to get what he wanted. We laugh now as we recall how he wanted the canned soup I had stacked on an open shelf in our kitchen. I would lay him on a blanket in the adjoining living room near the furthest window and in a few moments he army crawled himself over to the little shelf to pull the cans off. All-day this routine was repeated. I had no idea how determined this little guy would always be.
Later when all my friends boasted of their little one’s vocabulary I prayed again. I knew that Isaiah was smart because when I would talk to him or give him a direction he would silently do what I said, but he didn’t talk. I had an auditory alphabet toy that spoke the letter and its phonetic sounds. He played with it every day, meanwhile, I had a new baby girl, Elaina. One day I heard him saying the letters out loud and before we knew it, he wasn’t just speaking but he could read. We started to become aware that Isaiah may have been a late bloomer but he was also gifted.
By this time he was nearing three years old and I was expecting Lydia. I remember people suggesting spacing out your children helps you to enjoy them more, but we obviously didn’t listen to them. We had three babies in little over 3 1/2 years. To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement.
I realize now as an adult that the family we grow up in is very important. I knew it then, believe it or not, I was trying with all my might to be the best mom I could be. In the twenty years that I have been a mom, I realize I had many blind spots and I didn’t always handle stress in the right way. Ok, I never handle stress in the right way. But if the heart is any indication of what I really wanted to be to my firstborn son, it would speak of countless nights I laid awake trying to figure out how to become better.
I am not sure why, on Isaiah’s twentieth birthday, I decided to write about his beginnings. I am reminded today of how important it is to look back in time. To remember how it all began helps lift us out of the muck and mire of the becoming process. To raise a son who is a brilliantly late bloomer has been a challenge. Now this baby boy has completely grown up into a towering young man. He is still determined, witty, and continuing to surprise us.
In his senior year of High school, COVID 19 rocked the world with worry and concern. Again I felt the insecurity I felt during the year of my pregnancy with him. My heart broke at his disappointment to realize his Spring track season was canceled and Prom and Graduation were postponed. I hated how on his 18th birthday his friends came to visit and awkwardly stood in the front yard 6 feet apart to wish him a happy birthday. That spring felt like an army crawl to the long-anticipated finish line of graduation. Again I fell to my knees to pray for my firstborn.
Today marks his twentieth birthday. The thing that stands out to me today as I look back over twenty years of loving my firstborn boy is the battle. To love and forgive and stand together as a family isn’t always easy, but we love no matter what. We pick each other up in the hard times. We cheer each other on when we take those first steps toward something new and great. Even if we have to pull each other off the ground a million times in the process it is worth it. We believe in each other, and we pray for each other. This is what it means to be family.
As I look over it all I see God. I also see tears and struggles, laughter and silly stories, but mostly I see God. Not because I was so great or wise, but because I fell on my knees again and again…
and He answered.
In your life have you taken the time to look back to the very beginning? It is risky to look back, I know. In the details, there are moments that are uncomfortable, but as we look back there is also an opportunity to see how God was there.
“Rejoice at all times. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in every circumstance, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”