You want to be big, and you hate that your not. You want to run, and you hate that can’t. You want to eat by yourself, you hate that I won’t let you. You want to type, and you do pretty well when I am not looking. You are slowly becoming my big boy. You have been taking your medicine at night with a big cup, and now you insist to have a taste of moms drink just to show off how good you are at drinking from a cup. You even want to sit facing forward in your carseat. You hate that you can’t see what is going on. I often catch you squirming ferociously and tweaking your head just right so you can watch me drive. When I glance back, all I can see is your big blue eyes, and when I call your name, those gorgeous eyes smile.
I love when your eyes smile. I can remember when you were in the ICU when you were first born. I was afraid. I was afraid to be your mom. I was afraid to care for you. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to love you right. I was a wreck. The day you were born you spent most of the morning in the arms of family because as far as I was concerned I would have you forever, what was a few hours? It was so soon after you were born that you were taken to the ICU. I didn’t get to enjoy those first moments with you. I didn’t get to know you like I hear other moms getting to know their babies. I missed my short window of opportunity before they took you away. I had to love my newborn from a distance. I could only see you every 3 hours. I could only hold you and feed you with permission. I remember being scared to mess up. Once a nurse asked me if I wanted to change your diaper, or take your temperature, they wanted to make sure I felt involved as a new mom. I have to admit for the first 3 days that you were in intensive care I timidly passed on the opportunity. I regret those chances to love you like I should have. When it was finally time to leave the hospital, I didn’t feel ready to take such a precious little thing home. There is a strange mixture of fear and joy that comes with driving off from the hospital with your firstborn in the vehicle. There's a powerful sense of transition and new beginning, and yet fear as well. It's a fear closely attached to the question, "What do I do with this thing?" It's a healthy fear born out of an awareness of the fragility of new life.
Did you know that even that small, you made everything ok. As a newborn you had a way of smiling with your eyes. I may not have known what I was doing. I may not have held you enough, or fed you right, but right then and there you made sure I knew I that everything was ok, and that it would all work out. I love when you smile with your eyes.
Well, little mister, we have made it a full six-months, and I messed up often. But after all the falling, crying, hugging, laughing, we have made it through just fine! I have created a hyper-active little child, and I can only blame myself! I encourage your squeals. I love your squirms. We laugh and play for hours on end. Did you know that we have set records on how long we can play Patty-Cake together?
I want to take advantage of every moment I get with you, because soon enough, you will be big. Soon enough you will eat by yourself and you won’t need my help. So until then, we can continue to drive dad nuts when we speak our own language. We will continue to rile you up before bed just so we enjoy every last second before we see each other in the morning.
I will let you be a big boy soon enough. Until then, you have to sit backwards in your carseat, and tweak your head to see me.
Love momma.
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