Intentions

By Diane Payne

My daughter and her neighbor friend approach me while I’m writing. There’s obviously something important on their minds and I figure it’s a favor of sorts.

“Mom, Lou Ann wants to invite us to her church.”

I look at Ania. She wonders what I’ll say. Lou Ann’s eyes fixate on me. No smile. No frown. “Such maturity,” I think.

“Thanks, but we’re not really church‑going people.”

Lou Ann looks at me disbelievingly. My daughter looks a bit more relieved. They stand beside me, certain there’s one more thing I’ll say. But there is nothing more to say.

The girls go outside and ride bikes. I remember when I was twelve and experimenting with Jesus and church and fearing God, certain he was deriving pleasure dangling me above a fire every night, warning me of my future for all that daily sinning.

After I got saved, I asked my neighbors across the street who didn’t go to church to come with me one night. They drank beer while we walked to the church, and then tossed their empties in the bushes near the door.

Afterwards they complained about how boring it was and told me they appreciated my concern for them, but no more church. Remembering those long spiritually‑induced teen-aged years makes me want to protect Ania from all this good‑intentioned religion. I survived those years, and I had become fanatical during my teens. A bona fide Jesus Freak. Maybe it’s those memories that frighten me more than the unknown possibilities of what the preacher may say if she attended a Southern Baptist church.

When Ania returns home, she tells me her friend showed her the Bible and told her she prays every night and she loves going to church and she’s certain God’s happy she had this talk with her, and she’ll call her in a half hour to make sure her family can pick her up for church the next
morning.

“What should I say, Mom?”

“It’s your choice. Did you ask her about her church’s beliefs?”

“I asked her what she thought of Catholics and she said they were okay but they’d never go to heaven.”

“Did you tell her your dad is a Hindu?”

“No.”

“Did you ask her what her church thought of gays and unmarried women who have children?”

“No. What should I say when she calls?”

“You could screen the call.”

“She’ll ride her bike over.”

“You could go to her church, but if you don’t go every Sunday they’ll take it personally.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but people down here get rather touchy about their churches. Church is their life.”

“Why can’t we move back to Arizona or anywhere normal people live?”

The phone rings. Ania wanders off to speak in private. When she returns, she informs me that she blamed her not going to church on me. “I told her I’d go when I was older.”

“You told her that?”

She shakes her head affirmatively.

“You may go to church.”

“Mom, I don’t want to go. What if she won’t be my friend now?”

“Show her books about Krishna next time she comes over. Tell her diversity is a good thing. Tell her you’re a humanitarian and try to do good things to make the world a better place. Tell her heaven and hell aren’t that important, but being kind and accepting of others is valuable. Tell her you appreciate her concern for you.”

“She said she wants all her friends to go to heaven.”

“Tell her you hope to live a long life, so be happy, don’t worry, go ride bikes, play with dogs and cats, be kids, have fun.”

“Mom! I can’t say that.”

Sunday after church her friend rides over. She says she needs to talk to Ania in private and they go to her house. When Ania comes home, she’s upset that her friend’s dad showed her the

Bible and pointed out the Ten Commandments. He asked Ania if I wanted her saved.

I wonder what parts of their conversation she’s leaving out and suggest she invite her other Indian friend over on weekends since that’s her only other friend who doesn’t attend church. I mention there’s strength in numbers.

“This is awful,” Ania says and starts playing the piano.

Later, while my daughter is taking a shower, the doorbell rings. I open the door but don’t ask the dog to stop barking. A man hands me a flyer with a church address printed in the middle of a bunch of smiling stick figures. He’s the preacher, and introduces his wife and son, then asks what church I attend.

“None.”

“We sure wish you’d come to ours.”

“I feel better not going to church. I haven’t found too many churches to be accepting of others.”

“Oh, we are.”

“My religious leanings are more Quaker, Unitarian,” I mumble.

“Oh, we’re non‑denominational. We’d be perfect for you.”

“Thank you for the invite,” I say and close the door.

My daughter is peeking around the doorway, smiling. “See what it’s like?”

“I’m going to make a sign for the door. No proselytes or solicitors.”

“No one will know what those big words mean.”

“I’ll hang a dictionary from a hook, just like the fern."

“Really?”

I shake my head affirmatively, fill a glass with wine, and go sit outside. At least tomorrow will be Monday. Six days of peace before another round of church.

Breath-holding Blues

By Diane Payne

Looking back, I’m relieved that I didn’t call 9‑1‑1 the first time Ania held her breath until she passed out. Instead, I grabbed my six‑month‑old daughter and ran out in the yard, screaming for help. While I was screaming, Ania started breathing again. We returned inside the house without me being able to thank anyone, since no one surfaced to offer any assistance. That was an equally frightening realization. Ania was less daunted, but she was exhausted after the breath‑holding ordeal, and within seconds she seemed her normal self, nursing peacefully.

After Ania fell asleep I called friends seeking advice. “Oh, no. Sounds like epilepsy,” one friend decided. Another friend suggested Ania had a breathing disorder and to bring her to the emergency room immediately. An assuring friend said it may have been a one‑time ordeal, and said it probably wouldn’t happen again.

“What were you doing to her to make her pass out?” another friend demanded. I explained how I was changing Ania’s diaper, getting her ready for bed, and all was fine, just like every other night, until she started screaming. She interrupted me to ask if I had poked Ania with a diaper pin. I used those cloth Velcro diapers, so I knew that wasn’t it. “Well, there must’ve been something. Babies don’t get that upset,” she explained.

I hung up feeling depressed, wishing I could pass out and be relieved of the guilt, the uncertainty, the fear it may happen again. A few days later, Ania held her breath once more. This time I called a pediatrician. By the time we were able to meet for our appointment, Ania had two more breath‑holding episodes, and each time all had been going well. The outburst of screaming took me by surprise, just like the not breathing seemed to take Ania by surprise.

After the doctor gave me a lecture for not having Ania vaccinated, and pegging me as one of them, those homebirth mothers, those mothers who hold off on vaccinations, he left me with the intern. The intern played with Ania, and after examining her and questioning me, he excused himself and returned with a large book. “I think I figured it out. She’s a breath‑holder. I don’t think she has epilepsy. We don’t need to do any tests, at least not now.” Then he read me the section about how breath holding usually starts at six months, and lasts until they’re four.

“Four! Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry, they automatically start breathing. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“She’ll do this until she’s four?” I felt like crying.

“According to the book.”

“That’s a long time. Are you sure she’ll always start breathing?”

“She will. Do you know infant CPR?” I didn’t, but promised to sign up for a class. “It’s a good class to take, just in case something else happens.”

“There are worse things than this?”

“Oh, yes,” he laughed.

“What can we do to prevent the breath‑holding?”

“Walk away and ignore her when she does this. She’s manipulating you.”

“How can she manipulate me? She’s only six months.”

“She’s very bright,” he said, trying to give me some hope.

“This is a sign of being bright? Making your mother panic is a sign of intelligence?”

“It’s working. She’s making you react. I know it’ll be hard, but make sure she’s in a safe place when she starts screaming, then walk out of the room. It won’t stop until she doesn’t get a reaction from you. In the meanwhile, take the CPR class.”

I left the office relieved Ania didn’t need to be tested for epilepsy, but I couldn’t believe this could happen for four more years.

I wondered if I had done something to make Ania angry. I didn’t work so we could be together all the time. I signed her up for infant swimming lessons and participated in playgroup. Were there more things for a six‑month‑old child to do? I wondered if she was upset I was a single mom on food stamps. The news was constantly ridiculing single mothers, especially those on welfare. Could Ania actually be recognizing me as one of them, and fearing for her future after hearing those bleak reports. Perhaps she was holding her breath to blackmail me into getting married?

Instead of getting married, I developed a new mission. All day long we walked through the house, and I pointed to the objects she may want, repeating the words over and over. Every object in the house, I’d repeat like some catatonic mantra, just in case this may be what Ania wanted but couldn’t articulate. “Light on, light off,” I’d say turning the switch on. “Water. Water. Water. Ball. Ball. Ball.” I even made flashcards and placed them all over the house, more to remind me to keep saying the words, than believing she was going to start reading them.

During the next few breath‑holding sessions, I placed Ania on the futon, then raced to grab the illustrated chart on CPR steps that was hanging on the fridge, and waited for the screaming to stop, the breathing to begin. I grew to appreciate how subdued Ania became after the experience, though I was certain I grew at least fifty new grays waiting for each session to end.

Once at a restaurant, a real treat for me, Ania was in her baby carrier sleeping while my friend and I were actually holding a conversation. Ania woke up abruptly and started that ear‑piercing
screaming, and I could see it was going to turn into the breath‑holding scream. “Just ignore Ania,” I told my friend. He looked at me as if I were crazy. The lady behind me screamed,

“Your baby is turning blue!”

“She’ll be fine. Just eat,” I said, with my hands now shaking.

And then Ania did start breathing and the lady look more upset that I was nursing her in public than letting her turn blue in a restaurant.

“We should just order out next time,” my friend suggested.

“When Ania’s four, she shouldn’t be doing this anymore,” I explained.

“Four! She’s only nine months. We’ll order out for the next three years.”

Little by little, Ania stopped holding her breath and started using words. By the time she turned one, the breath-holding ceased.

Ania’s now ten, and she loves to hear the story about when she held her breath. She seems to derive perverse pleasure from this story, from my misery. Every now and then, she’ll puff up her cheeks, then burst into laughter, thinking it’s the funniest thing she’s ever done. Little-by- little, I’m learning not to tell Ania so many stories.

Jailbait and Other Concerns

By Diane Payne