Not Here to Meet You

Not Here to Meet You

by Katie Huey

On my first Mother’s Day, I went into labor. I spent the day preparing for my baby’s entrance into the world. I told our parents they couldn’t wait in the hospital halls, and with COVID, being on-site wasn’t an option. Orbs of encouragement and intentionality were important as I surrounded myself with tokens of love and mantras of care. I brought a framed photo of my dad holding me the day I was born and placed the picture of us on the side table near my hospital bed. During the less glamorous moments of delivery, I turned his photo face down. Perhaps he didn’t need to see this part of my entrance into parenthood. Baby came at her own pace, and as Sunday turned into early Monday morning, I transformed into a new being, unsure of myself and this little creature I now called daughter.

After the baby came, my husband called three grandparents and sent texts, waiting for their arrival to meet her. With my daughter nestled close to my chest, wrapped in a blanket covered in tiny footprints, I made an important introduction. Turning the photo face up, I said, “This is your Papa. I sure wish he was here to meet you.” And I sure wish he was there to see me become a mother. 

My dad died in 2016, six years before we even dreamed of having a child. His absence, at times, is everywhere. When I was nine months pregnant, I cried, realizing my unborn baby will live the experience of loss from the moment she enters the world. I fear the day when she first says, “My grandpa died before I was born.”

The loss of a parent has been a profound experience. To realize she lost him too breaks my heart. 

I’ve had friends ask, “Did losing your dad impact your choice to have a child?” My answer is always yes. For losing someone early made me realize how fragile life is. There are no guarantees and as humans, very few passes from experiencing pain. My choice, though, to become a mother, was greatly influenced by my dad’s tenacity and belief in love. As time has passed, I’ve learned to work at bringing his presence back to me. 

My journey into motherhood is just starting out. I am nurtured and informed by the powerful women in my life and influenced by the multitude of ways our culture fails women and those raising children. In these spaces, I call upon both my dad’s softness and his strength. At bedtime I sing the lullaby he sang to me each night, asking for God’s protection and grace. I see the twinkle of his eyes in my daughter’s smiles, and affectionately teach her the difference between eyeballs and earballs. I’ve placed photos of Dad around my home, and put the same picture I took to the hospital in her nursery. 

I think back to one of the last pep talks he gave me. I was struggling at work, and his voice echoed through the phone. “Kate, you can’t quit. They can fire you. But you can’t quit.”

I think of those words often. Parenting is a journey I can’t quit. I want to teach my baby to believe the world is beautiful and full of things to admire, wonder about and appreciate. I want her to know even our achings can teach us things. We can’t control when the people we love leave us. I can, though, introduce waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, and dance parties in the kitchen, and call upon the power of a pep talk when things feel bleak. I carry forward his presence in my doubting, in my emerging, in my transformations and in her growth. 

And still, I sure wish he was here to meet her and to watch me be a mother. Always.