Before Liam was born, I was in the middle of one of the busiest seasons of my life. Ryan and I had not been married for very long and we had just bought a house. I was attending school an hour and a half away from home and would drive to and from classes 2-3 days a week and I had a lot of homework. I was also working and I was pregnant and I was exhausted. I often felt like I was barely treading water. One morning, I arranged to go into work late because I had a doctor's appointment. Liam wasn't growing properly and we were sent to the high risk doctor to figure out why. During that appointment, I was sent to the hospital for observation and I called to let my boss know that would probably not make it in that day. I thought we would be in and out and life would return to its normal lightening speed. And then...Liam was born and my world came screeching to a sudden halt. I remember marveling at how just a couple of phone calls and emails could make my entire life disappear. Every worry, responsibility, and obligation was instantly erased. From that moment on there was only waiting... and Liam. I could not drive for several weeks and so there were many days that I would sit at home and wait for Ryan to get off of work so we could go to the NICU. I remember one particular day I spent sitting in our overstuffed recliner for hours. I stared at the bookshelf beside me, telling myself I was going to pick a book out and I was going to read it because I had time to do that sort of thing now. But I never did. I just sat there, my legs tucked up underneath me, and I prayed....sort of. I would like to lie and say that I prayed the prayers of a good and faithful human being... but I can't because I did not. Instead, I let God know that if he let anything happen to this baby, I would hate him forever... and then I begged for the baby to die now, right now, before I really knew him and loved him and if God could do that for me, if he gave me that, I would still hate him.... but maybe not as much. Yeah, it was ugly. At that point in my life, I could not imagine anything more traumatic than Liam's birth and hospital stay. Now, I can. Seven years later, and that time in my life barely ranks on the Awful Things radar at all. This is partially because far worse things have happened and this is partially because.... Liam. If there is anything at all to say about Liam it is that he is worth it. He is worth every ugly tear I cried over his tiny body. He is worth every moment of sheer terror, desperate longing, overwhelming despair, white hot anger, and crushing love. He is worth every sleepless night and every early morning. He is worth every doubt, insecurity, and utter failure I experienced as I learned to be his Mama. And these days... he is worth every eye roll and flounce and slammed door and insult he can throw at us. He is worth every angry word and reluctant apology. He is worth the exhaustion and the confusion and the frustration.... because in every single moment in between all of that, and sometimes even right in the middle of it, I look at this boy of mine and I see pure magic. He is magic. Liam never asks to be held any longer. Not even when his legs are so tired and we have been walking forever. He used to lean his belly against my legs with his arms stretched up to me a thousand times a day, but he does not do that any longer. Not ever. Liam is shy now. He resents the attention his blue hair brings him. He mumbles thanks when people comment on it and tries his best to blend into his surroundings. He used to thrive on attention and bask in the glow of people's adoration, but he does not do that any longer either... and it is hard to get used to. He does not want to be kissed and he rarely needs my help getting dressed. He can make himself lunch, brush his own teeth, tie his own shoes. He walks to the neighbor's house alone. He rolls his eyes and sighs, "I know," when I give him instructions- any instructions- because he pretty much has this all figured out already. I know that this is how it is supposed to be and I love it most of the time, but every once in a while I realize that the early days are over now... and they slipped away so quietly that I barely even noticed them go. If I had noticed, I probably would have dug in my heels a little bit and thrown a bit of a tantrum so it is probably better this way, but, every once in a while, the finality of it all takes my breath away. My baby boy is seven years old. I have had to say good-bye to a thousand versions of him already and there are so many, many more to come. I miss him so much I can hardly stand it and I love him so much I can hardly stand it... and I am so grateful that I have been given seven years to be this tortured. I did not deserve it, not even for a minute, but being able to keep this boy for however long he is mine has been the most beautiful and complicated gift I have ever been given... and I still never take a single day of it for granted.
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Since becoming a mother, I have written ten birthday blog posts to my three children. The posts usually follow a standard format: I touch on what makes them special to me, what I love about their personality, what I find clever, amusing, frustrating, and endearing about that boy at that age. Sometimes, I have made lists of the words they know or the things they are doing and it is fun to look back on those lists later and remember who my boys used to be. Rory turned two and I started writing that post... but then I realized I didn't want to make a list. Not even a little bit. Then I realized I did not actually even know what I wanted to say at all and so I put it off and put it off and felt guilty about it and put it off again and now my littlest little has been two for five days and I have barely mentioned it at all. Ironically, out of all of my children I am more intimately aware of what Rory is and is not doing at this stage of his development than I have ever been before. I have official lists and pamphlets and printed graphs pinpointing any progress in any area that he has made in the past year. I have hospital records and therapist recommendations and a calendar full of upcoming appointments for more records and more recommendations. We know his height and weight and blood type and head circumference. We have pictures of his brain. Hell, we have an analysis of his DNA. None of this tells me the things I long to know about my baby. I know that Rory is happy and I know that he is loved but this is a really short list and sometimes it just isn't enough because I don't know what Rory's favorite food is or if he likes the song I sing to him before I put him to bed or if he will ever get the hang of walking or if he will ever say, "Mama" or if he will ever stay out past curfew and make me worry or fail a midterm or fall in love or backpack through Europe or learn to tie his shoes.
But a lot of days, most days, it is enough. Rory is Rory. So, instead of writing a list... I watched my baby. I watched him lay quietly on his back, shaking a rattle. He shakes it up and down, up and down, slowly and then faster and faster. He throws it to the side, rolls over and picks it back up, rolls to his back, and shakes it again. He passes it from one hand to the other, smells it, tastes it, rubs it on his head. He shakes it again, watching it intently, and then looks for me. He looks into my eyes and a grin lights up his face. He shakes his rattle for me and I smile. He shakes it again so I will smile again and then he laughs. He lays the rattle to the side for later, rolls to his belly and scoots away on another adventure. Maybe this time he will throw all the books off the bottom shelf again or go in search of the broom again. Maybe he will make the journey to the bedroom. There is a basket of freshly washed clothes there just begging to be toppled. Eventually, he will grow bored or tired and he will cry to be held and someone will come and love him. He will give sloppy, wet kisses or show off his new wave, which seems to make everyone so happy. Then later, he will cry again and eventually someone will figure out that he is thirsty or hungry and he will squeal with delight when they do. He will clap and laugh at everything put on his tray and he will eat it all and then he will lift his hands in the air to declare that he is "all done." And again, the crowd will go wild. Rory is two years old now, and this is what I know: my little boy is happy and he is loved and it does not matter if he backpacks through Europe or learns to tie his shoes. It does not matter that it takes his mama a few extra days to process his birthday because she has a lot more feelings about it and it does not matter that she does not make lists of all the things he does because what isn't on that list is too much for her to look at. He will still be happy and he will always, always be loved. Before Rory, maybe I thought I knew, but I didn't really know, that you could live a good life without learning to tie your shoes. I don't know what is going to happen or who Rory will be but I know this thing about life that I didn't know before and never could have really learned without this person in my life and I am so, so grateful for it....even when I am not. Rory Emerson, you are beautiful and you are loved. You make me smile every, single day. Happy birthday. Thank you, thank you, thank you for joining us. |
WHO AM I?
I am Michelle: a wannabe hippie in love with a bonafide geek. We also spawned. I spend my days with our four wild, beautiful boy children and I overshare about our life online because I am a Millennial and that is what we do.
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