times should have given me some clue as to what might happen. I was so sure I would return. In fact, I assured the principal I would return to work in the fall and dismissed her concern. However, four months after Greyson’s birth, the new school year began, and I was not in my classroom. I couldn’t leave him. For lack of a more explicit reason to justify going back on my word, it didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. I couldn’t bear the thought of the vulnerability I would subject Greyson to by placing him in the care of a stranger. I delayed going back to work for as long as I could, which essentially meant for as long as I could pay rent without having a monthly income. I was able to stay home with Greyson until he was eight months old. Since I didn’t return to LAUSD, I had to find another teaching position. Thanks to the ongoing teacher shortage, I was able to sign on with the Hawthorne School District as a kindergarten teacher and began teaching in the spring. The new school was located literally five minutes from our apartment. The plan was for Dennis to stay home with Greyson during the day, bring him to the school during my lunch break so I could breastfeed, and go to work when I got home at 3:00 p.m. We maintained this rotation until Greyson was ten months old. When I found out my biological father’s wife had a childcare service, we decided to make a change. Dennis was beginning to complain about how little he was able to accomplish with work on the current schedule. With hesitation, I agreed to let her watch Greyson.
For the most part, things seemed to be going okay with our new childcare arrangement. By now Greyson was almost eighteen months old. Then one afternoon, I arrived at my stepmother’s house to pick up Greyson. I walked into the house as usual, and looked for Greyson. He was not there. My heart began to race. I quickly went to find my stepmother. She was in her room, talking on the phone. I politely interrupted, “Um, where is Greyson?” She said, “Oh, I sent him over to my sister-in-law’s house because I had a headache.” She spoke with the most casual tone, as if she had told me he was playing outside in the backyard. I looked at that woman like she had completely lost her mind and said, “What?” She said, “Oh, don’t worry, she’s really good with kids.” Just try for a second to imagine how hard it was for me to stay calm at this point. I did not know her sister-in-law, nor have we ever discussed the option for Greyson to be sent to someone else’s house without my consent. How did she come to the conclusion that this was a good choice? How many times has she done this without telling me? What else is going on that I’m not aware of? I was beside myself.
When I walked into her sister-in-law’s dark apartment, Greyson was sitting on the couch with a busted lip and dried blood on his mouth. According to the sister-in-law, who did not speak English, which meant we had to do this entire exchange of information in Spanish, another child had thrown a bottle which hit Greyson on his lip. My Spanish was still intact, but imagine me standing in her living room/bedroom, holding Greyson, trying to stay calm, mentally translating what she was saying to me while trying to find the right words in Spanish to relay how angry I was. I took the rest of the week off from work and found a preschool that would accept Greyson immediately.
Preschool was an adjustment. Greyson had to get used to being around many different types of children and to the rules in a new setting, and I had to get used to the $775 monthly tuition payment for a child who could feed himself. After the experience with the sister-in-law, what choice did I have? Now, three years after the birth of Greyson, his sister was due the next day.
“Dennis,” I call out. He has dozed off on the Lazy Boy with a pencil and the Contraction Count Card in his hands. “How many minutes ago was the last contraction?” I ask him. He has been timing the space between the contractions since this morning. The contractions haven’t gotten any closer than an hour apart. Other than the sharp pain in my lower back earlier this evening, while we were out having dinner, and my protruding belly, there is no sign of her arrival. Then, all of a sudden, and I mean out of nowhere, I have to go to the restroom immediately! I quickly scoot to the edge of the sofa, brace my arms for support and push myself up. I make it into the bathroom just fine. However, as I finish using the bathroom and stand to straighten my clothes, a stabbing pain simultaneously shoots through the front of my uterus and lower back. The pain is so intense my knees buckle, and I fall down onto the floor! It feels like a sharp object has been lodged in my lower back. I try to catch my breath, but with continuous pain it is difficult to breathe. I reach up to grab the doorknob. Thank goodness I didn’t lock it. I pull down on the doorknob. The door opens just enough to bump the top of my head. “Dennis!” A few feet away in the family room, he quickly comes around the corner and carefully squeezes through the bathroom door opening. “Is the baby coming? Can you stand? Did the water break?” he asks without pause. I can’t answer. I grab onto his arm to try to get up when another jolt of pain stabs at my uterus. It is unbelievable. It’s almost 11:00 p.m., the contractions are rapidly intensifying, and it is clear she is coming. Dennis pulls me up off the floor, and I take three steps before another jolt of pain hits again. Each time I have a contraction, I do the one thing you are advised not to do. I tighten e—v—e—r—y single muscle in my body. The Lamaze breathing techniques I practiced during my first pregnancy are difficult to remember, due to the shock of how quickly this is happening. Dennis calls out to my mother while holding me up to keep me from falling back to the floor. It takes fifteen minutes for Dennis and my mother to get me less than fifty feet, from the bathroom to Dennis’ truck parked outside in the driveway. Once I am seated in the truck, Dennis runs around to the driver’s side, jumps in, and quickly starts the engine. My mother gets into her car with Greyson and my brother, Christopher. The hospital is a ten-minute drive from my parents’ house. My mother and Dennis carefully bypass red and green lights. I hold onto the door handle and squeeze so tightly my hand is numb. As soon as I catch my breath, another contraction. The contractions that were practically non-existent less than forty-five minutes ago are now less than five minutes apart and relentless. Finally, both cars come to a screeching halt at the Emergency Department entrance. Dennis jumps out of the car and runs inside to get a wheelchair. It’s 11:35 p.m. I am immediately wheeled into a private room to get into a hospital gown. I can’t tell what is going on with the nursing staff, but they are moving incredibly slowly. After several minutes, I am wheeled into a delivery room for the doctor’s exam to determine the cervical dilation. At 11:50 p.m., the doctor lifts the sheet that covers me from the waist down. This time all thoughts of clarity and “clear beginnings” are out the door. I beg for the epidural. The pain is unbearable! The doctor quickly covers me back up with the sheet and responds, “You’re way beyond medicine now!” The next thing I know, the nurses are scurrying around the room in preparation for an immediate delivery. The reason the pain is more intense this time is because she is already coming out! I’m not merely having contractions, my body is holding her inside! At 12:01 a.m. on March 30th, the exact day she is due, the doctor says, “Alright, Bridgitte! I need you to push as hard as you can and don’t stop!” For the second time, I bear down with my remaining strength and push! At 12:10 a.m., Mckenna, our second child, is born.
After not wanting to leave Greyson, trying to find quality childcare that wasn’t equivalent to the cost of a mortgage, and dealing with the discomfort of leaving a baby with someone in whom I did not have implicit trust, I decided to remain at home with my daughter instead of returning to work.
When I made this decision, the teacher shortage in California was beginning to wind down. Teachers who were employed on Emergency Teaching Credentials were being laid off. I was one of those teachers. After six years of teaching at the elementary level, I received my layoff notice two months after Mckenna was born. This meant I was eligible for unemployment benefits. With the little money I had saved while teaching, the unemployment benefits that would hopefully stretch out for six months or more, and Dennis securing more home improvement work projects, I felt optimistic. It appeared the stay-at-home situation with Mckenna might actually work. We didn’t have a strong financial safety net in place, but, as I was able to identify potential income streams, I was determined to make it happen.
In a disturbing turn of events, two years later, Dennis was hospitalized due to the onset of symptoms for a stroke. He was thirty-three years old. When Dennis was admitted to the hospital, this completely changed the course of our lives. Every wheel that was turning forward stopped. In every way imaginable, we were unprepared to
