When my younger sister, Sarah, and I were both little girls, we were in the habit of praying every night before we went to sleep in our bunk bed. Usually our prayers went something like this: “Dear God, please help so-and-so who has cancer, please be with the family who are missionaries in Africa, and please be with Mr. so-and-so who lost his job. And thank you for books. In Jesus name, Amen.” Our prayers slowly evolved, depending on the needs of the people in our family or church. However, one prayer that we were unrelenting on was the plea for a younger brother. We needed one because when we played House, there was no one to fill the male father role. And to be a brother of quality, his name had to be Hercules, Aladdin, or Jack. Somehow, God heard our tiny voices every night.
Unbeknownst to us, Mom and Dad had been trying to have a son for years. Getting pregnant had been easy with Sarah and me. It just happened as soon as they decided they were ready and Mom went off birth control. Life as the happy, American, middle-class family was panning out just as planned. But when they tried for their third and final child, hopefully a boy, they got nothing. Over five fruitless years passed and the whole family was praying, together and individually, when one day, we had a “family meeting.”
“We’re getting something very special, and we want you girls to guess what it is,” my Dad said, barely able to contain his excitement. Sarah and I were five and seven at the time. We were clueless.
“A car?”
“No, smaller.”
“A bike?”
“No, it’s living.”
The guessing game continued for far too long, and my parents gave us as many clues as possible as to what this special thing might be. Based on the knowledge that it was living, very small, and wiggly, Sarah and I rationally but erroneously concluded that our family was going to get a baby worm. We were literally rolling on the floor with laughter at this bizarre concept. Mom and Dad looked at each other and decided to just tell us, since our silly childish minds couldn’t actually figure out what it was.
“We’re not getting a baby worm… We’re getting a baby!” At the news, the four of us were filled with excitement and joy. Even the family dog could sense it, because she was wagging her tail frantically and panting with her lips curled up in a furry dog-smile.
The pregnancy didn’t turn out to be all sunshine and rainbows, though. Much trial and tribulation was ahead of us, especially for Mom. I didn’t understand it then. I assumed that all pregnant mothers had to go on bed-rest. Early in the pregnancy, she began bleeding. Panicked, she went to the doctor, where she learned that although the egg in which the baby was nestled is supposed to be firmly attached to the wall of her uterus, it was tearing away, causing the bleeding. Should it be completely torn off, the baby would die and Mom would have a miscarriage. To prevent this tragedy from happening, Mom had to be as still as possible, because any large movement could cause more tearing inside her. The only reasonable way to do this was for her to go on bed-rest.
I now understand how incredibly difficult this must have been for her. She has told me that it was all worth it for the precious life inside her that she already loved so dearly, but my mother is an incredibly active woman. She’s a runner and an elementary school teacher. She’s used to being on her feet, constantly busy, constantly being productive. Now, she spent her days in bed reading the newspaper and books and watching TV and getting increasingly utterly bored. The only productive thing she could do now was be a safe vessel for a tiny embryo. When she got up to fulfill basic needs, she moved at a snail’s pace, even though she was dying to be active again. Meanwhile, the rest of us lived life as normal. My dad must have been more stressed with having to fill in for her with all the cooking and driving Sarah and me around. But she and I had no idea anything was wrong.
Finally, Mom was able to get out of bed and go back to work, but she wasn’t able to just jump back into her active lifestyle. The life of another was at stake. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take for the sheer relief of walking normally or lifting things or bending over. She would rather be a little helpless for a while than lose the life of her third child. She walked like an old woman, even though her body was still physically able to run. She wouldn’t carry a bag of groceries to the car but had a store worker help her, even though she was still physically strong. It was torture. It was still fairly early in the pregnancy, and strangers couldn’t see the baby bump yet and probably wondered what was wrong with her; why she looked so young but moved like she was elderly. But that didn’t bother her. She was surely a champion of mothers. Eventually she healed and the baby had become large enough that the risk of it dying was no longer a concern, and she, thank God, was able to resume normal activity.
At that point, the news of Mom’s pregnancy was allowed to be released to the public. I had been strictly told to keep this “secret” from all my friends at school until further notice. In retrospect, this precaution was probably in case of a miscarriage. When that threat subsided, I had the privilege of announcing it to my second-grade class. My teacher, who was a colleague of my mother, made a huge deal of having me stand up while everyone turned to look at me. “So, what’s the big news?” she asked.
I was way too excited to become nervous in the spotlight, and proudly declared, “I’m having a baby!”
My teacher immediately burst into laughter. “You’re having a baby?!”
Realizing my mistake, but thinking it to be petty and insignificant, I giggled and corrected myself. “My mom’s having a baby!” To me, that detail was almost inconsequential. Of course I was having a baby! A baby brother or sister! The humor and slight embarrassment of that moment has stuck with me over the years.
When the time came to find out the gender of the baby, it was an event for the whole family. I stood next to the white bed my mother was on while they rubbed gel onto her tummy, with a little device palpating her hump. On a screen was the grainy black-and-white sonogram image of a baby. The nurse showed us its head, arms, and legs. “Would you like to know the gender?” she asked my parents. Of course they did. And when we heard that my dad would no longer be the “only boy” in the family, nothing could take the smiles off any of our faces.
My sister and I, being the five- and seven-year-olds that we were, thought it would be our personal job to name our brother. We left our dreams of a Hercules/Aladdin/Jack baby behind and turned to more sophisticated titles, like Peanut-Butter and Tennis-Shoes.
“We should name the baby Gumball!”
“No, I like Blanket! or Q-Tip!”
“How about Underwear?!” Similar conversations happened on many occasions, and each occasion ended with roaring laughter at the sheer hilarity that we thought it was. My parents were pretty amused by it too, and often joined in the fun with their own silly name ideas.
It was my sister’s brilliant idea to name the unsuspecting embryo “Doorknob.” For some reason, that name stuck. The unseen baby was dubbed Doorknob, and everyone, friends and family, referred to him by that.
“How’s Doorknob doing?”
“Wow, Doorknob’s getting big!”
It started sounding surprisingly and incredibly normal, at least to me. Whatever “real” name my parents picked out for my future brother, we knew it would be hard to call him by anything other than Doorknob. It would probably be the poor kid’s nickname for the rest of his life.
Another cause for concern and prayer arose at this time, fairly close to the end of Mom’s pregnancy. After I almost lost my unborn sibling, I almost lost my other one when Sarah became very sick. She had been to a hospital before, as she frequently became dehydrated from drinking more milk than any child could ever need and puking until there was nothing left to puke. That was nothing new.
But this time was different. Sarah contracted a fever and was taken, exhausted, to the hospital. My parents were told, “The symptoms could indicate either Mononucleosis or Leukemia. We’re going to have to get it tested.” Downhearted and incredibly concerned, my parents asked everyone to pray that my sister had mono instead of leukemia. Of course they wanted a healthy daughter, but in this case they had to pray for the lesser of two evils. Leukemia was, of course, formidable.
Yet another answer to prayers, it turned out Sarah was coming down with a terrible case of mono. The Kissing Disease got her a lot of teasing, since five-year-olds smooch so many of those hot kindergarten boys. She was a miserable big sister when Doorknob was born because she wasn’t allowed to touch or even come near him for several weeks after he arrived. But that’s a story for her to tell. There is a photo of Sarah finally holding our brother for the first time, him pink in his infancy, and her, pale skin, tangly blond hair, brown eyes sparkling, and an altogether priceless look on her face.
The warm spring night that my brother was born, Sarah and I were at a ballet dress rehearsal. Mom deeply regretted not being able to attend the rehearsal, but she had a pretty good excuse, for being in labor and all. My dad could not be with us either, since he was with Mom. So, our beloved daycare provider, Linda, brought us to the rehearsal, taking lots of pictures for my mom as promised, and the two of us spent the night at her house that night. My birthday had been the day before, and my joyful first memory as an eight-year old is standing in my nightgown in Linda's dim living room after the rehearsal, clutching a huge phone and hearing my mom’s victorious voice say, “You have a new baby brother! His name is Samuel.” I grinned and handed the phone to Sarah so she could hear the news too. Samuel. Sam. Not Doorknob? Oh well.
Samuel meant “asked of God,” and, just as the Biblical Hannah had prayed for a son, whom she also named Samuel, that’s exactly what my brother was: prayed for, before and during the pregnancy, by many, many people. Asked for and received. Our enormous little gift from above.
It was exciting to have my brother’s birthday be the day after mine. From that day on, I thought it was hilarious to say, “I’m eight years and one day older than my brother!” It shouldn’t have happened that way, but it did, because I was born ten days after my due date and he was born eight days early. I guess I was too scared to leave the warmth and comfort of my mother’s womb, whereas Sam was more than ready to greet the world with gusto and look life directly in the eyes, one eyebrow raised.
Amidst this joyous time, my sister, however, was still sick. Dad was driving us to the hospital to see our new baby brother for the first time. I stared out the window, waiting anxiously for the hospital to come into view. We parked in the parking garage and began walking toward the entrance when Sarah stopped in her tracks and vomited on the pavement. We left before we even went inside. I was furious with her. The poor girl was miserably ill, but I didn’t care. She just had to barf in the parking lot and ruin everything. How could she be so stupid? Didn’t she care that we had a new baby brother that needed to be held? To this day, I give her a hard time for the setback in my first chance to see Sam. Needless to say, I was a brat. I did eventually get to see my baby brother and, despite the delay, I love him endlessly.
Sam would have been called Doorknob for the rest of his life, or at least the rest of his childhood, if my Grandpa hadn’t stepped in to save the day. He purchased a stuffed sheep that was incredibly soft and that I thought was the cutest little sheep I had ever seen. He had it embroidered across its belly, “Doorknob,” and gave it to my brother as a gift when he was born. From then on, my brother was Sam, and the sheep, the one that always won his favor above all other stuffed creatures, was Doorknob. And it sounded completely normal.
God bless.
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