A symphony for Susan

It started with a mother’s fixation for cards, photos, and souvenirs. My son was aware of that, so he sent me everything that he had accumulated in high school, in college, and in postgraduate school. Every year, I opened my camphor chest and stared at the thick and growing stock that I tied neatly with organza ribbons. Goodness, how many more would I collect before my son meets the girl that he’d marry?

"Mom, I met someone special," he’d sing and, instinctively, my face would light up because I would know that this girl would indeed be extraordinary. There was Natalie, Brittany (The "other" Brittany with brains), Kathleen, Joanne, and a host of charming and pretty ladies. For a time, I could not keep track of which one was making him fly to the moon on the wings of love, so to speak.

One day, he came rushing home and said, "Mom, I met a girl named Susan."

"What happened to Donita?"

"Oh, she had a last-minute video taping and could not make it."

Susan had an enchanting smile that framed her delicate face. She had natural curly hair that was as black as midnight, and she walked with an easy glide that could turn heads and drop jaws.

Many years passed and I saw Susan again. She arrived from America and was holding a sleeping infant in her arms. "Hello, Nonna," she said. Instantly, I felt like an Italian grandmother from Palermo or Verona with vino and pasta in hand.

Something else caught my eye. Susan was glowing. It was the look only a young mother was privileged to wear and capture: a combination of pride and serenity. What’s more, she had an aura of confidence that must have sprung overnight; at about the same time her doctor happily announced, "It’s a boy."

Susan was now a mother? A determined one, too, ready and raring to go. She gathered notes and searched the Internet; she asked questions and read books on the different aspects of parenting. She watched the baby closely and studied his every move and progress. Soon, she was a walking, talking authority, from nursing to nurturing.

She named him Gabriel after the archangel. "He will be the messenger of God bringing glad tidings of strength and gifts of hope."

Many times, I was tempted to offer Susan some folksy baby remedies, but I stepped back and watched her take the lead. She was amazing.

"No baby powder," Susan announced, and I raised my eyebrows. But then again, she believed that the talcum in baby powder could be inhaled by the child and was not good for his young and delicate lungs. That made sense. For the first time, I smelled the sweet and delicious scent of a freshly bathed baby without the perfumed starch. He did not develop any skin rash or prickly heat either.

"Mother’s milk only," and Susan fed and nursed little Gabriel, forging a strong and intimate bond between mother and child. The baby was also in his most comfortable position replicating the warmth he felt when he was in his mother’s womb. Like a lullaby, he felt safe in Susan’s arms.

"Everything natural," and Susan mashed potatoes, steamed rice, blended vegetables and boiled fish without salt and sugar. She took the baby on early morning walks, greeted the sun and the chirping birds as she swapped giggles with him.

At the baby’s first birthday party, she prepared healthy snacks like raisins, fresh apples, and bananas, and children enjoyed fruit smoothies and gelatins and homemade pasta. The grownups, however, demanded junk food.

"Baby comes first," and Susan drew a big line across her calendar. She crossed all the dates from January to December which meant that no person, no occasion and no endeavor could be that important to take her away from Gabriel and her nursery routine. She did not go out with friends either. Her only luxury was to make a quick trip to the hairdresser. Even then, she felt she shouldn’t do it too often.

"Music to soothe and comfort the baby," and Susan played Brahms, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and other classical pieces that were proven to both stimulate and relax the baby during different times of the day. When the baby turned four, the naughty grownups exposed him to the ketchup song, Asereje – or was that Mambo No. 5?

Susan shared her baby with everyone who expressed delight and interest over his arrival. At the last count, she had several volunteer grandmas, not to mention the overzealous titas. She exchanged stories, she made scrapbooks, she laughed, she sang and she danced; she played and read to Gabriel, too. Sometimes, she cried.

She made a promise that Gabriel would have a magical childhood and grow up with pride, dignity, integrity and love. That’s a terrific start. Whatever the future holds, Gabriel will be a gift and a blessing in her life; her personal miracle.

Every decision and every choice she made – sometimes requiring sacrifice and tears – came straight from her heart. "For love of Gabriel," she uttered as she closed her eyes with a prayer.

Is there anything more one could ask from a mother?

* * *

Thanks for your comments and suggestions. E-mail the author at lettyjlopez@hotmail.com.