Christmas Secret

     It was 40 years ago tonight, Christmas Eve 1972. I was 17 years old and a few weeks pregnant with Maria. Other than Sydney, a girlfriend from nursing school, no one else knew. I was afraid. Afraid of the pain of  childbirth. At that point in my training I had attended or assisted with about 30 deliveries, and I saw the agony of  laboring mothers. I knew things could go wrong. I had seen newborns with horrific birth defects. I was frightened of what I would have to endure, but never frightened of being a mother. While I was very aware of the responsibility I would have for another person for the first time in my life, I knew I could handle it.
     I was filled with a sense of awe. My tiny body was making a baby. My little 98 pound frame, which would soon be down to a pitiful 89 pounds would be developing, housing and protecting a baby! I already felt minute changes. Although the timing could have been better, I was happy. A month before, I saw a new mom reject her infant. She didn't want to hold or feed him. She asked me to dress him for the trip home from the hospital. She seemed to have no interest in him. I knew later that she was probably suffering a particularly bad postpartum depression, but then I found her cold and hard hearted and impossible to understand. I actually prayed that God would send me my own baby that I would love from the second of conception, and sure enough, He did.
So, that Christmas Eve, I sat on the floor by the Christmas tree. The feast of the seven fishes was about to start in the kitchen. The lights were glowing on the tree in the darkened room, and I was alone. I had a secret, a beautiful secret. Being pretty Catholic back then, I wondered what the Blessed Mother felt like when she was "with child" as they so delicately put it. I wondered if she was scared and happy at the same time, like I was. I wondered if she knew about me, if she would help and protect me. Did she spend hours imagining what her baby would look like, I wondered, or was she too busy living hand to mouth, traveling on a donkey and visiting with angels?
Mary, I whispered in the darkness, please help and guide me. You know my secret, you know what's in my heart. I know I'm only 17, but you were a young girl too. Please protect my baby, my body, my life.

An Orchid From Mr. Schley

Holiday memories are tricky. They can hit you  like a ton of bricks when it's your first Christmas without someone you love. They can sneak up on you and delight you, like when you see a scrap of fabric reminiscent of a long ago Christmas dress, or you get a whiff of a certain type of cookie only Aunt Rose made. 

       I have dress memories, cookie memories, and memories of a candle my mother lit once a year on Christmas Eve. I have fun memories of toys and jewelry, teapots, cameras,  wrong size blouses and wrong scent perfumes.  Maria's first Christmas,  her squealing joy over Poppin Fresh and Poppie dolls. Treasured memories of gifts from  Maria from her toddlerhood to her teens and beyond. The emerald cut amethyst earrings Michael gave me for our first Christmas together. 

Music memories.  Singing in my school Holiday concerts which were the highlight of my year. Memories of Midnight Mass. Memories of sharing the pretty pink or blue greeting card sized wafer of holy communion at the dinner table on Christmas Eve. We each took a piece, and everyone broke off a bit of everyone else's piece, which was not sacred  to me, it was fun! 

       When Mr. Schley and I were first in love, he was in the Navy in Florida. We were apart for a year, a long painful year. This was the very early eighties. No Internet, no cell phones, Skype, texting. It was Ma Bell and letter writing. When you are newly in love, a day is an eternity to be separated from your beloved. We saw each other twice in that year. As Christmas neared, the Carpenters song "Merry Christmas Darling" was my constant companion. I loved it so much that Maria bought me the record. A 45. Those lyrics were meant for us. "I can dream, and in my dreams I'm Christmasing with you". He called me on Christmas, it was short and happy and I was on cloud nine. Then New Year's Eve came. I was so blue, so sorry for myself.  Spending a quiet night at home with my little girl, watching tv, making special snacks. I felt alone on a night when the rest of the world was wrapped up in someone's arms.  I was missing Mr. Schley terribly. Then the delivery came. He had sent me an orchid. A beautiful, pale purple Cattelaya orchid. Not the plant, a cut orchid. The card read " Happy New Year, I Love You ". At midnight, he called. I cried and laughed and cried some more, and told him how much I loved him, loved the orchid, loved him. Although I thought I was so alone that holiday season, I wasn't. I was loved, cherished, I was in someone's heart, no matter how far apart we were. 

Maria is grown and making holiday memories with her own little girl. Mr Schley died in 1993. I still cry at Merry Christmas Darling, I adore orchids, and I still know that I am  loved and cherished. 

Thank you for the beautiful orchid, Mr. Schley.