The Dynamic Duo

This was meant to be written on January 5, 2006, for such was the date of our very own UltraBob’s 30th birthday. I used to claim him as my son, but as I am clearly not old enough to be the mother of a 30 year old, lets just call him my “ward.” Yeah, that’s it, ward, kind of like Bruce Wayne (aka Batman) and Dick Grayson (aka Robin). After all, we used to do a lot of super-hero stuff back in the day, or at least it seemed that way at the time. I remember…………….
When I was first married at age 19, I didn’t even want to think about children, much to Udad’s dismay. I mean, face it, I wasn’t all that grown-up myself. The days passed with my husband milking cows, irrigating and operating farm machinery. I was busy feeding baby calves, feeding baby lambs, feeding orphan kittens and, of course, feeding us. After the feeding was the cleaning up. Now that I look back on it, why in the world did I, after a time, long for someone else to feed and clean up after? Someone who would totally depend on me……….someone who would be part of me and part of my husband whom I loved so much……..someone warm and snuggly and smelling sweetly of baby powder and baby shampoo………….why indeed!
When we decided it was time to have a baby, it didn’t happen right away, so we were overjoyed when it was apparent that I was pregnant at last. I have heard some women say they LOVE being pregnant, feeling that life grow inside them, feeling more alive and full of health than ever before. That is NOT me. For me, to be pregnant is to be throwing up. It got so bad the doctor gave me a prescription. I forget what it was, but several years later, it was taken off the market. Seems it could cause birth defects or something.
Fortunately, my baby boy was (and is) perfect! Not knowing what to expect with our first baby, and living so far (70 miles) from the hospital, and it being the middle of the winter, we went into Idaho Falls to stay with my parents when my due date drew near. As it turns out, I always have PLENTY of time to get to the hospital; not only could we have safely driven the hour and a half to the hospital, but we could probably have gone to dinner and a movie on the way.
We never went to Lamaze classes; we just lived too far away and had too much work to do on the farm for that sort of thing, so I wasn’t as prepared as I might have wished. I knew labor wouldn’t be fun, but it really HURT. Udad was very sympathetic and tried to be helpful. As the contractions came and went, I alternately told him to talk to me and to shut up as the mood dictated, but I was glad he was there. He was there, in hospital scrubs, for the birth of every one of our kids, not like the days of my parents where the dad was relegated to the lobby, pacing and waiting to hear if he was the father of a boy or a girl.
Robert Wesley McDonald was named after my father, one of the most amazing men I have ever known. Also pretty amazing was this funny little red-haired baby boy, who possessed all of the requisite number of eyes, ears, fingers and toes. But something wasn’t right…….is a baby’s skin supposed to be blue? My baby was having trouble breathing, and he was whisked away from me and taken to the OTHER hospital where they took all of the intensive care babies. I didn’t find out til later, but at first they thought little Bobby had holes in his lungs. The lungs were collapsed, and the x-rays showed dark shadows. Tubes were inserted, one under each armpit, and the fluid build-up was drained away from the lung cavity. No holes! He was soon breathing normally, on his own. I once overheard Bob telling this story to someone: “I was Mom’s little smurf baby,” he said proudly, “I was blue!” Last time I looked, the scars from the tubes were still there. Bet they still are.
When I was finally released from my hospital, I went to visit my new son. I didn’t expect to hear, “Do you want to take him home today?” Right now? Wasn’t he still too fragile? How would I know how to take care of him? Okay, I panicked, but I did take him. And I haven’t been sorry, at least not too often.
We stayed in Idaho Falls for a few days, and then we took him home. Where was the sweet, sleepy baby of my dreams? This baby cried all the time and smelled, not of baby powder, but of sour milk which he constantly spit up. It was the dreaded “C” word: colic. I really don’t know what causes a baby to be colicky, but I think part of it was my nervousness and inexperience. And the more he cried, spit up and refused to nurse, the more frustrated I became. In the hospital, Bobby had become addicted to a pacifier. To calm him down, the nurses taped a baby bottle nipple to a towel, and that was the kind he wanted. I tried the cute little “Nuk” pacifier, but the only thing that worked was the big, ugly, flesh colored bulby kind. He loved that thing, and if it fell or, more often, was thrown on the floor and I couldn’t wash it off, I would pick off what garbage I could get and shove the thing back into his mouth.
I don’t mean to make it sound like it was all crying and pacifiers; there were definitely snuggly sweet times also, and as the first grandchild on my side of the family, little “Bobcat”, as his Grandma Wesley liked to call him, got lots of attention. We read to him a LOT, and not just kid books. I think I heard it would make a child more intelligent, and perhaps it worked. He certainly was a smart little guy.
If I try, I can still hear his little first-baby talking voice. When he would stumble and fall, and if he wasn’t hurt too-badly he would say, in a sing-song voice, “Uh Oh Faw down!”
We once tape recorded Udad reading some nursery rhymes with little Bobby commenting on each one: “Funny sheep!” “He’s going to get that water, huh Dad?” etc. I was really sorry when that tape broke many years later.
Bobby never liked to play alone, and I was his companion of choice (and necessity) for block building, peek a boo, tag and “Going for Coffee on the Tractor”. I think I have written about this before, but an old, rusty tractor, the wheels long gone was our conveyance. He would sit in the driver seat, and I would have to perch on the wheel well, and, imitating his dad who went to the local café almost every day for coffee and conversation, he would “drive to Howe.” I don’t remember us ever actually getting there. Usually, he would have to stop to fix something or “gas up” with sticks and rocks. Come to think of it, no wonder that tractor always had to be fixed; no wheels, and sticks for fuel…
Bobby was really excited when Heather came along a couple of years later. I was too, for several reasons. I loved my beautiful little red-haired daughter who, unlike her stubborn brother, liked the cute little Nuk pacifier. And when she got a little older, she could take my place as playmate to the young autocrat. I remember the plastic tricycle Bobby had and Heather’s “Apple-Peel-Mobile”. They would ride around and around the kitchen table on those things.
Well, It’s getting late, and many of Bob’s childhood adventures have been recounted in other posts., I am so proud of the young man he has become, and slightly in awe of his knowledge and abilities…..okay maybe more than slightly. He has a delightful sense of humor, and is one of the biggest fans of my blogging efforts. Bob, even though we live so far apart, I appreciate the effort you make to stay in touch. I hope you know how very much we love you.
Okay, I guess I’ll admit to being your mother after all. Happy Birthday, Smurf.

UltraMom, the Caped Crusader