The Making of a Man: Raising Honor in a World That Will Try to Define Him First

Dominique and Disney go together like open fire hydrants and kids in the summertime. There's a catharsis that comes with watching the colors move through the screen, appreciating the unfolding message of the story, and of course, screaming — to the top of my lungs — the greatest songs of all time. As a Lion King fanatic, down to the Broadway soundtrack (that I consistently find my writing inspiration in), and with the exception of the 2019 remake 👎🏾😢, you'd think my favorite Disney song would be found somewhere between Hakuna Matata and Can You Feel the Love Tonight.

'Tis not.

If you have any desire to see me in my element, play I'll Make a Man Out of You from Mulan. I can't tell you exactly what it is about this song, but I can tell you I love a good metaphor and it is chock-full of them. Long story short, the song is telling lame-o men (and one woman) to be more capable so they can win a war. My current war is named Black Motherhood. The lifelong battle is Raising a Black Man. So even now, I find myself reading to my month-old son college-level rhetoric on manhood that emphasizes a depth of maleness that never compromises integrity and gentlemanship for aggressive machoness. It's already been an adventure making this little man — and I found this song to be the perfect way to express the journey.

"Swift as a coursing river..."

What is surely swift is the way my little boy can already move his head. You have to catch him mid-swing to keep him safe. My reflexes are trying to catch up.

What was not swift was labor. 42 hours of unswiftness, to be exact.

A few weeks short of my due date — added to the stress of the biweekly check-ups for the size of the mass — they diagnosed Honor with an intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR). Basically, they said he was small for his gestational age, which comes with various possible complications... that he showed no signs of 🙄. This led to the decision to induce at 38 weeks.

When I got to the hospital on Sunday at 1:30, Nurse Esther told me I might be there for two or three days before the baby came. I said, "Yeah, right." My vitals were checked. My cervix was closed. 4 PM: Pitocin. 9 PM: cervix still closed. 9:30 PM: balloon catheter — a procedure that attempts to help you dilate; no exaggeration, it is significantly worse than actually delivering the baby. I was praised for my high pain tolerance. I rolled my eyes. Monday. 5:30 AM: 3 centimeters. 1 PM: still 3 centimeters. "We're going to break your water. Would you like an epidural?" "YES." 4 PM: close contractions I don't feel — Amen. Lowered Pitocin. 10 PM: 3 centimeters. "WHAT." Doctors suggesting a possible C-section. Upped Pitocin. Tuesday. Esther was right 😩. 1 AM: 9 centimeters. "YES." 3 AM: oops, 7 centimeters 😡. Can you imagine? I can. 9 AM: pressure.

"With all the force of a great typhoon..."

10 AM, Tuesday, July 2nd, 2019.

I'd read that pushing would require effort from a place that felt unfamiliar for the circumstance — I feel like that's something they should mention approximately one thousand times during pregnancy. There's no real way to prepare for it, but I like to act like I wasn't as confused as I was. #Lost 🤣

The staff readied up. A fantastic nurse coached me through every contraction. Honor arrived at 10:57 AM. The 57 minutes went by like 15. My eyes were closed the entire time. I forgot about my epidural button; adrenaline kept me going, and I was annoyed about it after he was out. They asked me three times if I wanted to feel his head. I screamed "NO" every time.

I'm blessed to have had an effortless delivery. I wouldn't describe it as the worst pain of my life in any way. I'd do it again — long labor and all — just to see another precious baby lay across my chest.

"With all the strength of a raging tiger..."

They told us he might not live. He's here.

They told us he might not breathe on his own. He came out quiet, but breathing, for sure. He graduated from the Level 1 NICU on the day he was born.

They told us he was too small. He was 5 lbs, 7 oz (I was 5 lbs 11 oz, by the way).

They told us he wouldn't eat. Of course he wouldn't eat — he was separated from his momma (there should be a resolution for NICU babies and moms with preeclampsia). But guess who gained 2½ pounds and grew 2 inches though. My boy. He's a champ.

In the Facebook group for parents of babies diagnosed with lung lesions, they acknowledge the strength of these babies and their fascinating resilience. But God. He's done a real work, over and over. I believe in miracles and I believe in Him. There's no strength like His.

"Mysterious as the dark side of the moon..."

I can't figure out what's more mysterious — babies or motherhood. We're both launched into a new life. His from a dark, warm, squishy, loud room into a bright, cold, spacious, still-loud world. Mine from selfishness and unrestricted freedom to complete selflessness and restricted freedom... provided the availabilities of pumped breastmilk and Grandma's schedule.

Honor's mystery comes via facial expressions. We know he's thinking something — and when it's not "hungry" or "poop," we're actively trying to figure out what it is. Sometimes he sleeps for three hours; sometimes thirty minutes. The thirty-minute thing almost always happens at night. He loves to stare at bland-colored couch cushions, which I cannot figure out when he's clearly attracted to orange walls, pink blankets, blue paintings, and yellow pillows. He's a great baby — very sweet, not fussy, super alert. You'd never know there was anything "wrong" with him.

I'm just starting to feel a little sense of normalcy from the hormone rollercoaster. That and sleep deprivation have driven me, begrudgingly, to ask for help. I like to feel like I've got it. After pregnancy, labor, and delivery... you don't got it. Even with the best support, you don't got it. Even when you feel like you got it, you don't got it.

Layered into all of this is the mysterious balance between breastfeeding and pumping. If you choose to feed via boob — amen. If you don't — definitely amen. Formula-fed babies sleep longer and don't rely on you for food, so you get more sleep and more freedom. I'm on the other side, where he needs my body or my body's milk to live. It's beautiful... and restricting.

And then there are the unending thoughts about his life and this world I just had the nerve to bring him into. I try not to obsess over education and society, but I do. I realize that education is one of my idols — and I pray he values it, but doesn't trust it to provide the stability that only God can. I understand that society is difficult right now and only getting more complicated... but I trust God to keep him; his eyes toward Heaven and his heart wrapped in His hands.

The world will inevitably try to tell him what it means to be a man. My job is to remind Honor that God made him; that our Lord chose to make a man who was clearly meant to be here.

A made man understands that when the world tells him to be swift, he's assured that all great things take time and patience. A made man knows that when the world wants him to believe some force will be greater than anything he's ever felt, their standards are different than his. A made man acknowledges that when the world tells him he holds the power, he tells them that He holds the power. And a made man sees when things in his life feel weird, wacky, and absolutely out of place — when the air of mystery is complemented by the noise of the hood, horoscopes, frenemies, energies, bags, the lifestyle and the vibes — he remembers: "all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose."

He'll make a man out of him.

God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him. — Genesis 1:27