Hello old friends. Please excuse me while I dust the cobwebs off my little corner of the internet and fumble into an overdue post.
I’m really loving this sweatpants-at-2:30 life. These days, my schedule is dictated by snuggles, diaper changes, laundry, and an occasional nap where I can.
And that’s completely OK.
It’s been only in the last few weeks that I felt myself become completely, utterly in love. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the beginning or that I didn’t love B from his arrival. We were more about survival then than savoring moments. Now though, he coos and smiles and wiggles. I can sink into the miracle, getting lost in his deep blue eyes as they glow and flicker. This is perfection.
Since his birth I’ve lived in the “new mama” phase with as much gusto as any. Two-minute showers, pain pills, sleepy eyes, and way too much talk about boobies. I’m discovering a mom’s way of thinking too.
A few days after bringing him home, there was a morning where M was gone to work, B slept in his bassinet by our bed, and I sat groggily trying to decide what to do with these precious free minutes. Grab some sleep? A shower? Maybe some breakfast? My thoughts stopped, though, when I caught a glimpse of my baby boy letting out a deep sigh. I sat and watched him sleep, watched him breathe. I didn’t want to do any of those other things. Creeping in the back door of my mind was a familiar feeling; something heavy that reached beyond the reasons I’d already given for my fear of parenthood; the root of it all, perhaps.
I flashed back to H720 three years ago, to sitting on that terrible hospital couch bed. From too far away, I watched M as he slept, praying for rest and comfort, not allowing my eyes to close for too long because I needed to watch over him. I needed to be sure his heart was still beating. I needed to see his chest rise and fall.
Now, here I am, looking over this tiny boy snuggled perfectly in his little bed, oblivious to all of everything. Again, I’m dreary and tattered, but refusing to sleep, needing to fight a fear. I have to watch, to be sure his chest will rise and fall.
That feeling – I loathe it.
I want to protect him from everything. With every ounce of me, I want to keep him safe. But, in a way more real and sharp than many experience, I know that I can’t. I am afraid. I have scars that I never want him to have himself. But I know he will.
I don’t want that hurt.
I don’t want to watch him have pain and I don’t want to feel the pain that comes with watching.
It’s an endless ache.
The irony is, that accompanying that ache is the deepest of loves – as if my heart needs to tear a little to make room for the overflow. The ache is necessary.
I knew this. But for the moment, the ache overpowered all else. I knew that, eventually, I would move past the fear and settle into the contentment of knowing that it’s worth it – the vast love is worth the fear, and even the hurt, when it comes.
He breathed in again, still peacefully sleeping and unaware of my presence.
Now, each time I find myself watching him a little too closely, in some sweet gift from heaven, he doesn’t simply exhale, but will breathe deeply with a sigh or a coo – an audible sign that he is, indeed, well.
His life still baffles me. I don’t know why he’s here, but I’ve come to understand what a gift he is. I get to spend the rest of forever loving this little boy, watching him change. Every day this gift grows. It keeps getting better.
I had resigned myself to a new plan, begun preparing our future as “barren” people.
But this is what God has done with our “barren.”
So even with the ache, I will watch and see. Watch with me and see what He can do with our Baron.