Boy, has Satan worked on me this year. Although I was never as physically ill during my pregnancy with my son as I was with my daughter, I had a different kind of illness that was much harder for me to cope with. I felt sad and depressed all the time. I quested my ability to be a mother and my decision to stay at home. I felt extreme guilt that I couldn't contribute to our family's limited finances and was instead leaching them away rather quickly with every doctor and pharmacy visit. None of these thoughts and feelings were prompted by anyone else--they all came from inside my own head. This was a war I fought constantly. I see now that I should have asked for help--and while I knew that then, a major part of me rebelled at the thought of spending any more money on medications and any more time at the doctor's office, no matter how badly I felt.
I was in a dark place. This is most of the reason why I haven't blogged consistently for the last year. I only realized that last week--that I was feeling so much better, I not only wanted to write again, I needed to write again. (Thanks, Mom, for noticing.)
All of that struggle? More than worth it. This little boy, he gives the best smiles. He is so happy and loving, especially toward me. He adores my face, and that makes me feel beautiful. Having a son is an experience I'm so glad I didn't miss out on. There is a special bond between us I never could have understood before now.
I am his everything. Well, most of his everything, since he also has a Daddy and a sister and doting grandmothers and aunts.
He has started learning to use his hands, but I can't get him to reach for toys. He does, however, reach for my fingers, my hair, my face, my arms. I was noticing this the other day when I realized what a privilege and a blessing it is to be so wrapped up in his beginning. My fingers are his first toys, my heartbeat was his first radio. My feet are his first mode of transportation, my ears are his first sounding board. My hair was his first soothie, my lips gave him his first kiss. My chest was his first nourishment (however short of a time that may have lasted) and my arms were his first cradle. I am his first introduction to love, but he has shown me to love in a far greater capacity.
The day I was dreading came yesterday. I gave him a bath and as I was brushing his hair, it started coming out in clumps. I knew it, I just knew it. He would have a bald period in his life, just like his sister, only hers came in June with summer and his has started with the snow. I love his dark, crazy hair, and somehow it makes me so sad to see it coming in much lighter. I'm not a big fan of the bald stage. I mourned about it all day, a little bit.
And then, my reality check came, when I followed updates about my high school best friend's older sister's little boy's third brain surgery. That little boy has no hair, and it wasn't natural growth that took it away from him. It was life-and-death necessity. Another high school friend posted about her little boy's third round of chemo for a brain tumor they found when he was only nine months old. An acquaintance from college was also entering her third round of chemo--and I had no idea she was even sick.
I'm a shallow, shallow person---with a great capacity to love.
I woke up early, early this morning, not feeling well. This is a common occurrence, but somehow this time when I woke up I knew it was for a reason (and not just to use the bathroom). As I was washing my hands, the spirit whispered that I needed to check on Sly. I'm a paranoid mom, so I brushed it off as just general worry and told myself that he was sleeping soundly and I shouldn't disturb him. But the thought came again, this time that he had wiggled his blanket over his face and I needed to go help him. Sleeping soundly or not, I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep until I had made sure he was safe.
Sure enough, after I crept into his dark room, the blue light of the LED nightlight showed me that the spirit was correct (DUH!) and he had kicked his blanket up over his face. Not just a little bit, which sometimes happens, but all the way over his face, There was no way he could have gotten it off, or moved his head enough to get fresh air. I tried not to let myself think about what would have happened had I left him alone, but the thoughts came anyway. I pulled the blanket down, tucked it in securely, but he started to fuss. I got him a bottle and I held and cuddled him for all I was worth for the next twenty minutes. He never really woke up, but he took the bottle. When I put him back in his crib, I made sure the blanket was wrapped around him safely, and no amount of wiggling and kicking would lead to his face being covered. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it still took me over an hour to calm down enough to fall back asleep.
This morning, he was halfway through a bottle when his Daddy woke me up and handed him to me. Remembering the events of a few hours before, I held him close and whispered how much I love him. He started smiling so big that he couldn't keep the bottle in his mouth, as if to tell me thank you and he loves me in return.
Can babies say prayers? I think so.
Can we answer them? Yes. Absolutely.
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