Two
Dear Kaleb,
Today you are two. This morning, over my first cup of coffee, I found myself lost in the memory of a delivery room nurse handing you to me, and how I had a gnawing sensation that something was not quite right. At noon, over lunch, I was back in a recovery room where we attended another delivery--the delivery of news we never expected. I saw myself in that bed and I saw that doctor standing at the foot and I saw Daddy's face while that doctor spoke and I felt that nurse sitting to the right. I saw it all and it didn't pierce. Instead I felt a twinge of compassion for that mama on the bed and that daddy at its foot and that doctor who was delivering. The extra news that accompanied your first breaths was hard, and the doctor who said it, the parents who received it, they weren't well-equipped to help one another see beyond the sadness.
But I am. Now.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to raise a son who develops at a typical rate. But that's just my head talking. My heart doesn't need an answer to that question. My heart wants only to know what it is raise and love and be loved by a son. My heart knows.
Bubby. Bubba. Bubby-boo. I think you earned your current nicknames from the sound you most often use to name things. "Baba!" you exclaim and point or sign or show us what you mean. It's your own one-word language, a language we find so endearing, and one we are now working hard to break out of. Words. They elude you in way nothing else has. We watch your mouth work, your brow scrunch. We think, "He's got it. He's got it this time," and "Baba!" you burst and clap for yourself. You'll get there.
Look how far you've come. You say Mama and Dadda, bye and hi, more, and ball and...baba. Thank goodness for sign language. It's allowed you to name the world around you: animals, toys, foods, feelings, preferences.
Words are work, but how you love to move. You're the first one of my three I've considered using a leash for. Really. There are days when you keep me moving ALL. DAY. LONG. "How do you stay so slim?" people sometimes ask. I only have to point at you. In a given morning you can upend a cup of coffee on the counter, pull a bowl of cereal off the table, unwind a roll of toilet paper, pull all the towels down within reach, dump electronic toys in a tub full of water, play with the toilet bowl brush, empty the wipes container, empty the cabinets, empty my purse, empty the toy bins, empty my jewelry box, empty the TV cabinet, empty a trash can, fill a trash can with socks, toys, and other random specks you find on the floors, taste the crumbs in your high chair and the paper on the floor, climb onto the table, climb onto the back of the sofa, climb the stairs, sneak into your sisters' room to mess with their stuff, and.... Some mornings I look at the clock and it's only 10 a.m. by the time all this has happened. I'm usually still in my pjs, your sister is usually half dressed, and you're once clean outfit is a mess.
Despite the fact that you can wreak that kind of havoc in our little home, you can also sit quietly and look at a book babbling a narrative of your own imagining. You remind me of Emelyn in those moments. You might sit for fifteen minutes to sort wooden fish into a play aquarium or to cook us a gourmet meal at your kitchen, bringing us the pot and a spoon to taste your latest creations. You remind me of Audyn in those moments. You might cuddle with your sisters on the couch for a book or a show. You might stand behind me to comb my hair, or back up slowly to plop yourself in my lap. You might fold your hands to babble a prayer that's just between you and God. You might throw your head back for the sheer pleasure of eating a food you love. "Mmmmm!" You dole out kisses and hugs with abandon. You pat my back when you know I'm sad or frustrated. When I leave for a while, I find you at the window in the living room waving and blowing kisses to me. When I come home, your little feet are usually the first to come running. "Mama!" you shout and thrust your arms up for a bear hug. You dance with abandon. You laugh often and long.
Other than watching you dance and hearing you pray or laugh, my favorite moments with you are alone in your room. I love the way you reach for me when I come to get you from your nap. You wrap your wiry arms around my neck tight, you tuck your head under my chin, you pat my back over and over, you whisper my name. "Mama," and it's the most beautiful song I know. I love reading books with you, the way you turn your face to watch me sign the words for you or to watch the way my lips shape the sounds so you can copy me. I love watching you turn pages and point at the pictures you like. I love the way you press your face against mine when it comes close to yours, or how you lean in to me when you see the picture of the rocking chair, so we can rock together in our own chair. We sing "Jesus loves me" every night in that chair; it seems to be the signal you're waiting for as we sing and glide, the signal that says, "It's safe to sleep now."
Kaleb, on your second birthday, I find myself so proud and humbled at the same time--proud of who you are and humbled that I get to be your mom. Son, you are a wonder and a gift. I have a feeling you have many more surprises for us along the way. I know we'll celebrate all the happy ones with song and dance.
For now, we live in the moment of your special day. Gifts are opened, cake is eaten, and the only thing left to do is sweep away the crumbs and clean the dishes. Then I'll creep upstairs to watch you and your sisters sleep. I'll tuck myself into bed and say my own prayers. I'll sleep for what seems to be only a few minutes. But I'll wake to the feeling of you handed down next to me in bed. I'll open my eyes to the sound of your sisters getting dressed and eating breakfast in the kitchen with Daddy. I'll bolt up to the sound of your little body sliding off the bed. I'll hold my breath while you dangle mid-air for a second or two, then watch you let go, your feet or bottom hitting the floor with a gentle thump. You'll patter in feet-pajamas to the bedroom door. I'll watch you pry it open to let in the light, watch you peek your head out and look around for a familiar face. "Hi!" you'll say and wave when you catch one. "Hi!" Then you'll turn to me (still struggling to get out of bed myself) and blow me a kiss, "Bye!" And you're off and running. Maybe someday I'll catch up with you. But probably not.
Happy Birthday, my little boy.
Today you are two. This morning, over my first cup of coffee, I found myself lost in the memory of a delivery room nurse handing you to me, and how I had a gnawing sensation that something was not quite right. At noon, over lunch, I was back in a recovery room where we attended another delivery--the delivery of news we never expected. I saw myself in that bed and I saw that doctor standing at the foot and I saw Daddy's face while that doctor spoke and I felt that nurse sitting to the right. I saw it all and it didn't pierce. Instead I felt a twinge of compassion for that mama on the bed and that daddy at its foot and that doctor who was delivering. The extra news that accompanied your first breaths was hard, and the doctor who said it, the parents who received it, they weren't well-equipped to help one another see beyond the sadness.
But I am. Now.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to raise a son who develops at a typical rate. But that's just my head talking. My heart doesn't need an answer to that question. My heart wants only to know what it is raise and love and be loved by a son. My heart knows.
Bubby. Bubba. Bubby-boo. I think you earned your current nicknames from the sound you most often use to name things. "Baba!" you exclaim and point or sign or show us what you mean. It's your own one-word language, a language we find so endearing, and one we are now working hard to break out of. Words. They elude you in way nothing else has. We watch your mouth work, your brow scrunch. We think, "He's got it. He's got it this time," and "Baba!" you burst and clap for yourself. You'll get there.
Look how far you've come. You say Mama and Dadda, bye and hi, more, and ball and...baba. Thank goodness for sign language. It's allowed you to name the world around you: animals, toys, foods, feelings, preferences.
Words are work, but how you love to move. You're the first one of my three I've considered using a leash for. Really. There are days when you keep me moving ALL. DAY. LONG. "How do you stay so slim?" people sometimes ask. I only have to point at you. In a given morning you can upend a cup of coffee on the counter, pull a bowl of cereal off the table, unwind a roll of toilet paper, pull all the towels down within reach, dump electronic toys in a tub full of water, play with the toilet bowl brush, empty the wipes container, empty the cabinets, empty my purse, empty the toy bins, empty my jewelry box, empty the TV cabinet, empty a trash can, fill a trash can with socks, toys, and other random specks you find on the floors, taste the crumbs in your high chair and the paper on the floor, climb onto the table, climb onto the back of the sofa, climb the stairs, sneak into your sisters' room to mess with their stuff, and.... Some mornings I look at the clock and it's only 10 a.m. by the time all this has happened. I'm usually still in my pjs, your sister is usually half dressed, and you're once clean outfit is a mess.
Despite the fact that you can wreak that kind of havoc in our little home, you can also sit quietly and look at a book babbling a narrative of your own imagining. You remind me of Emelyn in those moments. You might sit for fifteen minutes to sort wooden fish into a play aquarium or to cook us a gourmet meal at your kitchen, bringing us the pot and a spoon to taste your latest creations. You remind me of Audyn in those moments. You might cuddle with your sisters on the couch for a book or a show. You might stand behind me to comb my hair, or back up slowly to plop yourself in my lap. You might fold your hands to babble a prayer that's just between you and God. You might throw your head back for the sheer pleasure of eating a food you love. "Mmmmm!" You dole out kisses and hugs with abandon. You pat my back when you know I'm sad or frustrated. When I leave for a while, I find you at the window in the living room waving and blowing kisses to me. When I come home, your little feet are usually the first to come running. "Mama!" you shout and thrust your arms up for a bear hug. You dance with abandon. You laugh often and long.
Other than watching you dance and hearing you pray or laugh, my favorite moments with you are alone in your room. I love the way you reach for me when I come to get you from your nap. You wrap your wiry arms around my neck tight, you tuck your head under my chin, you pat my back over and over, you whisper my name. "Mama," and it's the most beautiful song I know. I love reading books with you, the way you turn your face to watch me sign the words for you or to watch the way my lips shape the sounds so you can copy me. I love watching you turn pages and point at the pictures you like. I love the way you press your face against mine when it comes close to yours, or how you lean in to me when you see the picture of the rocking chair, so we can rock together in our own chair. We sing "Jesus loves me" every night in that chair; it seems to be the signal you're waiting for as we sing and glide, the signal that says, "It's safe to sleep now."
Kaleb, on your second birthday, I find myself so proud and humbled at the same time--proud of who you are and humbled that I get to be your mom. Son, you are a wonder and a gift. I have a feeling you have many more surprises for us along the way. I know we'll celebrate all the happy ones with song and dance.
For now, we live in the moment of your special day. Gifts are opened, cake is eaten, and the only thing left to do is sweep away the crumbs and clean the dishes. Then I'll creep upstairs to watch you and your sisters sleep. I'll tuck myself into bed and say my own prayers. I'll sleep for what seems to be only a few minutes. But I'll wake to the feeling of you handed down next to me in bed. I'll open my eyes to the sound of your sisters getting dressed and eating breakfast in the kitchen with Daddy. I'll bolt up to the sound of your little body sliding off the bed. I'll hold my breath while you dangle mid-air for a second or two, then watch you let go, your feet or bottom hitting the floor with a gentle thump. You'll patter in feet-pajamas to the bedroom door. I'll watch you pry it open to let in the light, watch you peek your head out and look around for a familiar face. "Hi!" you'll say and wave when you catch one. "Hi!" Then you'll turn to me (still struggling to get out of bed myself) and blow me a kiss, "Bye!" And you're off and running. Maybe someday I'll catch up with you. But probably not.
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| Your first minutes |
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| Your first birthday |
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| The birthday boys |