Thank God I Didn't Kill Her

When I was growing up my Mother always knew she had two sure fire ways of keeping me in line. One was to tell my Daddy on me and the other was to guilt me with “if your Grandmother knew the stunts you pulled, it would kill her”. I’m still not sure what “pulling a stunt” is. I’ve heard of people performing stunts but the actually pulling of a stunt isn’t completely clear to me – perhaps we will discuss this term later. Needless to say, if you tell a child often enough that it’s behavior could possibly cause the death of a family member; eventually they will internalize that information.

In my life, I’ve done A LOT of stuff that I’m not very proud of but none of which I ever thought would actually KILL my grandmother. That is, none but one. When I was 19 years old, I became pregnant - out of wedlock. In the South in a Baptist family, this is like THE biggest no, no ever. Not because it can ruin your life, or because it’s immoral, noooo. The reason it’s the #1 worst thing is because the ladies at church will whisper about you. Yes Lord, a good ole knocking up will cause way more buzz than Ms. Ethel singing off key or Brother Larry’s drinking problem. If your child/grandchild becomes impregnated by some heathen boy, you can be removed from the congregation and forced to give up your spot on the Heaven Express if so voted by the Deacons.

Imagine my horror when that little stick turned blue! I just knew that I had finally done it. I had finally pulled the one stunt that would cause my grandmother to drop dead. I was pregnant and not married. Now, being from the Bible Belt, I immediately knew that not only was my grandmother going to die but that I was going to burn in Hell. There was no way out of it. I could beg for forgiveness but once the church ladies start that whispering, I believe they can actually drown out the prayers of the “sinners” if they want to. So there I was, 19, pregnant, unwed, about to commit homicide and going to Hell – there was only one thing to do – pretend it wasn’t happening. For 4 months I did just that, pretended it wasn’t happening. I finally told my mother in February and my Father in March (the baby was due in July). Finally on my Birthday (April 21st) I knew I was going to have to tell her because I was going to her house after work that day. I was 6 months along and had definitely been practicing the “eating for two” philosophy in my diet. I’d gained about 40 lbs and there was no way she wasn’t going to notice. I sat at work all day, trying to get up the nerve to call her. At around 3:30 in the afternoon, I realized that I had to do it – I was going to have to kill my grandmother on my Birthday. Man, when God punishes you – he really lets you have it.

Anyway, I picked up the phone and called……Pizza Hut. I was going to need strength for this. My pizza arrived; I stuffed my face and made the call. I cried and cried as I told her how sorry I was and how much I was going to miss her. From the other end of the phone I heard, “bring that boy to my house tonight” and she hung up. I was overjoyed – she wasn’t dead! Thank God, I didn’t kill her! Thank you Lord, thank you Lord! I was dancing around my desk when it dawned on me………she isn’t dead………that means I have to face her and “bring the boy”. Crap – maybe I’ll get hit by a bus – come on Lord, just a little bus. I don’t want to die but I do want to avoid the wrath of my grandmother. I left my office and walked across the parking lot without looking for cars……nothing.

That evening, as I sat in my grandmother’s living room, I had never been so uncomfortable in my life. For one, I was carrying a lot of water weight but most of all; it was because “he” was there. That boy – “he” – that’s what she called him. The first thing out of her mouth was, “when are you getting married?” I explained that I didn’t want to get married. That although I loved my boyfriend (who later turned out to be my husband), I wasn’t ready to get married and didn’t think that getting pregnant was a reason to wed. She looked me right in the eye and said, “the least you can do it get married so that the child can have a name”. AHHHHH – now I get it. Obviously, in the state of Tennessee, in order to name your child you must first be married. I had no idea!

However, the more I thought about it, it started to make sense. I knew a girl named Female (pronounced Fe-ma –ly) and I went to school with a kid we called Lil Boy. It never dawned on me that maybe their parents weren’t married. How sad. I really don’t think it’s fair that children be penalized for the sins of their parents but obviously in the South it’s common. However, I resigned that I would not allow that kind of stigma be put on my child. I continued with my pregnancy, making list after list of baby names. I had narrowed it down to several and finally decided on the perfect one before I went into labor. On July 31st I gave birth to a beautiful little boy. He was perfect in every way. They wheeled his bassinet into my room and placed him close to my bed so that I could see him for the very first time. I checked is hands and feet to make sure he had 10 fingers and toes. I was overjoyed. But my joy was short lived when I looked at the end of the bassinet and saw that my secret was out. There, on a little blue card, printed in permanent black marker on the “name” line it said “BABY BOY ZUENDEL”.

To this day we joke about me having to tell my grandmother about my first pregnancy. One of the things that I learned in all of it was that my grandmother wasn’t nearly as frail as my mother wanted me to believe. I learned that I was not capable of killing a family member with the “stunts I pulled” unless the stunt involved shooting one of them. I learned that “eating for two” is just an excuse to become a COW. But the most valuable lesson I learned was, if you live in Tennessee and get pregnant out of wedlock, you’d better buy a bus ticket to Illinois if you want to name your own kid.