5 Fellas 'n Me: The Beginning

The brief version of how we went from “Nic and the boys” to “5 Fellas ‘n Me”

I always assumed there would be children at some point but I did not expect to be consumed with those feelings so suddenly and seemingly unprompted by anything at all.

Getting pregnant was easy and everyone knows how that works so no details necessary and being pregnant was the most amazing feeling ever.  I loved the feeling that a little life was growing inside me and I loved imagining what he or she would be like.  I pictured fairy tale days full of adoration, laughter and learning, and falling into a deep and happy sleep at the end of each day.

The first perfect little boy arrived kicking and screaming and, determined to continue this theme, he has been kicking and screaming ever since.  We are often at odds, he and I, because there is a constant struggle for power and with my adult logic I  cannot understand why he does not simply accept the blanket of love, knowledge, and safety that I bring to our relationship.  He has never really accepted that I might actually be acting in his best interests; in fact he seems to think that I have always made it my mission to thwart him.  I do not understand him as well as I would like but I do love him with all my heart, with the heart of a mother. 

Even though I was realizing that parenting was a lot harder work than expected, a couple of years later we were ready to try this craziness all over again.  We had an early miscarriage that blew the embers of my desire for another baby into a raging fire.  It was all I could think about and all I longed for and when I was pregnant again a couple of months later I cautioned myself but felt whole again.  Another wonderful pregnancy and I realized that I felt like a woman when I was pregnant; the rest of the time I was afraid of my own body.  I needed to explore that one day but not now while I felt on top of the world.

That second perfect little boy arrived quickly and lay snuggled on my chest while the nurses attended to other business.  He was not impressed when they bathed him beside my bed but snuggled back where he was when it was all over, his skin and mine seamlessly molded together.  He let out a contented sigh before his eyes closed; he was right at home as if my body was his and he has been that way ever since, completely comfortable.  I do not remember when and how I knew but at some point during the next eighteen months my desire to bear children had been satisfied; there would be no more additions to our family.  At the same time came the unbelievable, “this only happens to other people” realization that my marriage was over and yet I had selfishly brought two perfect little boys into a world that could not deliver on the traditional expectations of family life.  We tried and we tried again to make things work but it was not to be and we both moved out of the marital home and started new lives that included coordinating schedules, packing bags, and communicating changes in behavior and routines.  It was the very last thing I ever imagined or wanted but the only thing to do.   

The boys hit all the usual milestones in tact with Mum and Dad determined to parent well together even if they had not been able to do it in the same house.  I protected the boys from my adult life and when they were with me, I was all theirs and they were all mine.  Therefore, it was surprising to me about five years later when I met the man of my dreams.  When it happened, it was ridiculously easy!  I respect the way he thinks, I love his flare for adventure, I like that he worries about the same things I worry about, and I enjoy that we make each other laugh.  It was amazingly easy to say yes when he proposed to me; I felt so privileged that a man with such integrity and sturdy values would ask me to spend the rest of my life with him. 

That led to the third and fourth perfect little boys!  Not in the traditional way, although I would have loved to bear a child with this fabulous man, instead I gained two lovely stepsons the same day I married my darling husband.  They did not enter my world kicking and screaming like the other two but, just like them, they created their own niche and their own way of being loved from the first moment.   That third perfect little boy has a heart for people and looks out for those who struggle and need a helping hand.  He needs encouragement, a hand on his shoulder, a whisper in his ear to tell him he can do anything he puts his mind to, and more.  That fourth perfect little boy has a free spirit that runs and jumps and rides and tumbles with a smile that bursts with zeal and drive and passion.  He loves freely and unconditionally and is not afraid to express it; his three brothers mean the world to him and he is his happiest when he is in the middle of the latest adventure.

I did not expect any of this which serves to remind me that I may think I am in charge but it is better that I am not.  Some days they fall into a deep sleep, some days we are rewarded with those perfect moments I imagined and everyday I am surrounded by uniquely talented fellas…all five of them. 

My Dad's Hand

There’s nothing like putting your hand inside your Dad’s and feeling his entire hand wrap around yours.  From my very earliest memory I remember how protected I felt by my Dad. I remember feeling emotions that are described by words that we do not use frequently because they mean something so illusive.  I felt cherished.  I felt adored.  I felt like I belonged.  When my Dad engulfed my hand with his it meant I could pursue anything and achieve everything.  He quite sincerely believed that I would be successful regardless of the goal. 

When his hand gloved mine I would look up into his eyes and his pride shone back at me.  It was overwhelming because I had no concept of what I was capable of and, even though I didn’t know it as a child, there was every probability that I would fail eventually.  In fact, I did fail many times over but his hand was still encasing mine reassuring me that this was not the perfect opportunity, the right time, the circumstances needed for success and I believed him so I kept on trying.  It did not seem to matter if my goal was to get promoted, to live in another country, or to cycle a century, he would look me in the eye and say “I am so proud of you”.  My Dad was a working class lad from an industrial city in the north of England and his Dad died in a building accident when my Dad was in his early twenties.  He did not have the chance to say goodbye and he was not born of the generation where a son told his Dad that he loved him.  My Mum told me it broke his heart.  She told me he was not the same again until I was born and I stretched out my hand and he took it protectively in his.

At any age and every age, my Dad held my hand.  The physical act became more infrequent as time passed and I no longer lived at home but when I was on the phone needing reassurance or discussing a plan over email, I could feel his hand firmly around mine.  When my Dad told me he had been diagnosed with lung cancer he held my hand from afar and said that I was not to come home.  He did not say the word “yet” but we both heard it and I squeezed his hand from a distance and respected his wishes.  A couple of months later it was time to make that trip and when I walked into his hospital room his face lit up and he proudly introduced me to his nurses and said, “Nic’s here” as if that fixed everything.  I realized in that moment that my Dad needed me to hold his hand; a daunting task that required both my hands to shroud his one.  I was not ready for this but I could not fail this man I did not want to live without and who believed I was capable of everything. 

I sat by his side for two weeks as the body of this big, strong man failed and the periods of sleep grew longer.  One morning, he told me he was ready to die and I clung to his hand willing him not to want to leave.  Perhaps if I held on tight enough my good health would flow through his hand and stream into his body.  Not many days later we moved him the short distance from the hospital to the hospice and with that desire to organize that masks feeling out of control, I unpacked my Dad’s toiletries and spare pajamas before being stricken with the realization that there was not a moment of hand holding to waste.  My goal was that my Dad would know that I was right by his side communicating my love by stroking his hand the entire time.  As his breathing became more difficult I squeezed his hand and counted him through the tough spells that lasted about thirty seconds but were getting more and more frequent.  This lasted for a couple of hours I think and then almost magically his breathing seemed to even out.  My hand relaxed a little around his as his breathing became so shallow he could barely be heard. A few moments later I realized that his breathing could not be heard because he was no longer breathing.  He had slipped away with his hand tightly encased in mine.

Everything I feared came flooding at me and I wept for the loss of unconditional love, my guiding star, my one true advocate and in the days and weeks that followed I felt the need to fiercely guard him and his memory as if we were under attack.  I wanted everyone to know him as I had known him but that was impossible.  It took me a while to understand that the power of that love did not stop it merely took a different shape.  As time has passed, the rough edges of the pain of losing someone I love and admire so much have smoothed and I have relinquished my hold to allow my Dad’s hand to take back its rightful place, warmly around mine.  It gives me strength and determination and it lets me fail without being a failure.  There’s nothing like putting your hand inside your Dad’s and feeling his entire hand wrap around yours.