I wish to say at the outset, though it will be obvious, that this will require both a mother’s and a father’s point of view…first, because the participation at the end is so very different; but also, because even given equal settings, men and women tend to think of things so differently.    So this will be a record, in chronological order, of my memories combined with my journal accounts, of the births of each of our seven natural children.

BIRTH MEMORIES – JULINA

Juli was the first…and I think most couples, while overjoyed at the prospect of a child, are also a bit overwhelmed at the idea of parenting.  I mean, it is kind of like driving…you watch other people do it your whole life, but the first time you are alone behind the wheel, you feel like you don’t know anything.  Parenting was much the same for me.

We were thrilled when Jeanne became pregnant with Juli because in young couple-years (see dog-years) it had taken so long…over 8 months!  However, we lived during half of that time in a young- married ward where the bulk of the announcements every Sunday in Sacrament meeting was the names and details of the multiple babies that had been born in the past week.

This pregnancy was almost frighteningly normal.  We had read some materials, and nothing that occurred during that time was outside the parameters of what we read…all was expected.  Jeanne experienced morning sickness, but we knew that would happen, and it was neither dramatic nor lengthy (remember this is my perspective, not hers).  We chose her name one evening in Salt Lake City, doing genealogy at the Church’s main genealogy library there.  We came upon the name Julina, who had been the wife of one prophet (Joseph F. Smith), and mother to another (Joseph Fielding Smith), and we loved it.  Michelle, my older sister’s name, seemed to be the perfect middle name.

On the precise delivery date predicted by the doctor (these things almost never work this way), Jeanne awoke to slight cramps, which we assumed were false labor.  I left for work anticipating a normal day, but at 7:15 a.m. Jeanne called and said the pains were coming at regular intervals. 

We decided she should call Cathy Coverston, a neighbor and good friend who had significant experience as a nurse in maternity wards.  She suggested timing the contractions and waiting a little.

Mid-morning (10:00 or so) with contractions 2-3 minutes apart, Cathy took Jeanne to the hospital.  She had not dilated much, so they sent her home.  At 11:30, Jeanne called me again, and asked that I come.  I took the rest of the day off, and headed home.

From that time until 1:00 we just tried to keep her occupied, and to practice the breathing techniques we had learned in our pre-natal classes.  These were supposed to relax her, and they did help somewhat.  At 1:00 we took her to the hospital, but she still had not dilated much, so home we came again. 

We walked around a bit (a widely suggested method for bringing on contractions), and tracked her contractions.  They grew slowly but steadily closer and stronger.  By mid-afternoon she didn’t feel like doing much, so she lay on a blanket in front of our little tv and we watched an old movie.  The contractions were coming hard and fast, and she would fall asleep between them, worn out by the discomfort.

At about 3:00 Jeanne felt like she would need some pain killer, so we called our doctor, Roger Lewis.  He wanted to check her at his office in Orem, so we drove up very carefully, arriving about 3:20.  After a quick check, Dr. Lewis emerged with alarming news: Jeanne had dilated to 8 centimeters and was ready to have the baby!

I whisked her down to the hospital (hitting almost every light green…a tender mercy to be sure) and pulled in the hospital lot about 3:45.

 They immediately began to prepare her, but their fastest was not fast enough…Jeanne’s waters broke, so they wheeled her into the delivery room.  Dr. Lewis, concerned about some bluish blood which seemed to indicate a lack of oxygen to the baby, called a specialist; but four pushes later, and before the specialist could even get started, Jeanne produced a perfect, beautiful baby girl.  The clock showed 4:12 p.m.

Total time in the hospital before delivery was about 25 minutes; hard labor 3.5-4 hours; total labor, about 11 hours.  They cleaned our baby up, pronounced her healthy, and let Jeanne hold her.  While my wife is not one given easily to tears, there were some that welled up here…she had made it through her first pregnancy, with all the discomfort and pain, and here was its product…our beautiful Julina.

Jeanne was ready for some rest, so I left her, and made some phone calls.  Then, because no one was home at our trailer, I headed…where else…to the ballpark.  I arrived ahead of Jeff’s game, so none of my family were there yet.  I just kind of wandered around in a daze…a deep sense of happiness and peace in my heart.  Two had become three…in such a dramatic yet normal way…that it seemed like a miracle.          

My Grandpa Lambson

To begin with, it is not clear what his full name was or is.  To us, he went by Byron.  On his marriage license it says “Palos Bee”.  In our family tree on LDS familysearch.org he is identified as “Apolos or Paulus Byron”.  On his draft registration card “Palous B”.  I guess  if there is a final judgment, it might be his death certificate, which has him as ”Paulas Byron”.

His was not an easy life.  His mother died in July of 1902, when he was 4.  His father died seven months later in February, 1903, less than a month after his 5^th birthday, leaving him an orphan.  He went to live with his Aunt Mary (Stradling, his mother’s sister) and Uncle George Cook.  He was married to Myrle Nelson in 1917at the age of 19, she only 18.  She died less than five years later a month after giving birth to their third child, my Uncle Bill, who in 1943 was shot down flying a mission over France, and was never found.

When I was younger, I never connected these dots that formed the harsh outline of my Grandfather’s life.  If I had, I might have cut him a little slack.  He married my Mom’s mom Gertrude after her husband passed away in 1939.  It didn’t last too long (probably because of his drinking), but long enough for Mom (Iola) to become pen–pals with Dad (Virg), which led eventually to their marriage (tender mercies)…and to make our family tree more interesting.

He lived with us for several of my formative years, in the unfinished part of our basement in Orem.  His living there was in part a result of an accident he had while intoxicated, running his vehicle into the Provo River. 

He ate meals with us, but otherwise kept pretty much to himself.  My father would drive him places, and even take him fishing with him from time to time, but there was always an undercurrent of left-over resentment that, after the death of his wife, Byron left the three children in the care of friends and relatives and became a wanderer…so that they were, in effect, orphans as well.

What I came to appreciate later is how loyal he was.  He always came to our little-league baseball games.  He stood by himself, off to the side of the bleachers, but according to Mom, he would tell anyone who approached him and would listen what terrific players we were…in some detail. 

Besides fishing, another passion he and my father shared was watching boxing matches.  I can remember them both glued to the old black and white T.V. for the Gillette Friday Night Fights…usually a double-header.  I never heard of most of the boxers, and didn’t care much for the sport, but watching Grandpa was entertainment enough.  When he would get really excited, he would come out of his chair and imitate the punches and moves that he thought the guy he was rooting for would or should make.

I sat next to him at the table, and he always made his coffee really strong.  We kids would joke that you could make a spoon stand upright in it.  I later gave it credit for insuring that I would never be tempted in the least to drink coffee.

Grandpa moved into his own place in Provo sometime during my high school years.  I didn’t see him much between then and my mission.  He died in the summer of 1976 while I was away at ROTC camp; but I am grateful that he lived long enough that Jeanne and I were able to have him over to our BYU trailer to dinner a few times, and get to know him better. Love you,  Grandpa.