Different

I first grew and nurtured girls. Sweet, fun, playful ladies. My heart still aches for those moments piled on our couch, weekends spent as our three-girl-gang (plus one fancy dog). Exploring the city, long lunches, making our own fun at home. Those years are pressed into me, and are undoubtedly where my mind will go, when my body is too feeble to do much else but remember.

But this boy. Tactile. Inquisitive. Intense. Attached. Different.

After years of trial and heartache, he arrived as the crowning (literally) event that rewrote my entire life. New city, new state, new home, new family, and another baby. This time a boy. I still marvel at the sentence: I have a son.

My girls feel like they’ve always been here; I can’t locate a “before.” But with him there is a razor-sharp line. Maybe because I was a girl-mom for almost seventeen years, starting when I was a teenager myself. Maybe because everything else had changed when he came. Or maybe because I knew he was the very last. There was newness and finality both so intense.

I had assumed he was a she. Then the ultrasound tech said, “Oh, he’s not shy,” and there he was…proud, unequivocal, all boy. From that moment on, my most frequent thought was the least eloquent one I owned: This is different.

Labor was long, he was huge, but once he was here he was, a baby. Imagine that. I hope I sink to a better rhythm here eventually, finding my grip on what I’m doing here. Currently I feel awkwardly rusty. We’ll get there, but I digress. In many ways this boy was my “first” all over again. Easy, chunky, content. My brother-in-law took one look at those rolls and stated, “This kid put together in biscuits.” Precious boy. Sweet personality. And then the boyness began to announce itself in moments I still replay on loop.

The first time his fat little hands cupped my face, one dimpled palm on each cheek, and he planted an open-mouth, slobbery cheek kiss. Momma and son.

That was the beginning of a jealous vying for my attention I never experienced with my daughters.

He’s seven now.

As soon as he could sit up he was body-slamming his super hero guys on the kitchen floor. Turning sticks into guns. Walking the edge of every sidewalk like it was a balance beam, sprinting down trails, and flies around corners on his scooter with zero regard for mortality. The instinct to protect him is involuntary and exhausting. Hiking with him is madness. Eating in a restaurant is low-grade torture. He is loud, hot-headed, know-it-all, cool-dude energy in a boy, that is no where near a baby, toddle, not even really that little yet still crashing, bashing, defending, and destroying.

But then night falls, and everything is different again.

His love language is physical touch, and I am the only vendor he accepts. There is a nightly demand to cuddle. He needs my arm, my side, my entire self. He rubs his feet together to fall asleep exactly like I do. He will wedge himself between me and his dad (or a sister) like a possessive little heat-seeking missile. Our favorite way to watch a movie is with him draped across my back like a heated blanket that breathes.

Every morning: long hug, back rub, “Did you sleep good?” (I know it’s grammatically wrong, but it’s ours. When he was tiny he’d have me up at 5 a.m., climb onto the couch with me, and whisper, “You sleep good, Momma?” before we watched Wall-E in the dark for the 300th time.)

“Momma, will you lay with me? Sing and pray? I just want you. Late afternoon came around today and as I was trying to decide what to do next, he presented “Can we cuddle now? I just need it.” First time he’s ever phrased it that way. I’ll take every second of this season, separation-anxiety or not. So my 330-430pm alibi today was that boy, on the couch, watching some guy on instagram making things out of chocolate, and funny dog videos (LOUD laughs if they are reacting to their own farts) and then just quiet stillness of no media, but 30 more minutes of just being together filling both of our tanks for the rest of the evening.

If he doesn’t fall asleep in my arms, he begs me to stay. Most nights I eventually carry him (still carry him) to his bed. He still fits in that space between my jaw and collarbone, even with that giant head. I smooth his sheets, kiss his ears, his hair, his jawline, and wait for the sleepy “I love you, Momma” or “See you in the morning.”

I did the same with my girls. I remember. Ava is nineteen and she still finds me for a good-night hug, but I don’t tuck her in anymore. Why don’t I? I should. She’s still here. I should.

This last baby. This boy. He has slowed me down, sped me up, and scorched every nerve I have by dinnertime. But these nights are sacred. The child I nursed for three and a half years is suddenly seven, yet he still wants his momma. And I still want this time.

“I just want to cuddle here for a minute,” he whispered as I told him it was time for bed. It is no time at all before his breathing changes and he is drifting off. I found myself thanking God for him while I rubbed his strong little arms, kissed his hair, felt the weight of his head and the heat of his hand clamped around my arm. Sleepy, hot, wanting to connect with my husband before sleep, but pulled to stay frozen in the demanded closeness for just a bit longer.

There was a trend a while back of moms asking their big sons if they could pick them up one last time, or just hold them, because one day the carrying stopped and no one could remember when. That day will break me in half.

I get it now, boy moms. I see why we linger longer, baby them when the world says they’re too old, defend them fiercely, pray they become strong and gentle at the same time.

Because it’s different with this boy.

In your Time

Back in the early 2000’s when Mommy Blogging was all the rage, and before everyone but me decided to get serious and monetize my blog, I was writing several times a week, and thoroughly enjoying the community I was building, the readership I had, and even the haters! Oh yes, I was so popular with strangers on the internet, I even had haters.

Fast forward 15 years and writing has never gone away. I’ve sat down many times and written this post. I’m pretty sure it’s been almost this exact post. I come to this resolute place where I finally feel motivated to act, but I usually get as far as the set up before it falls totally flat like the SpinDrift I open for Owen that he promises to drink. He takes two sips, and it sits on the counter for hours before I dump it out and swear I won’t give him another one.

That is me with writing. I open it up, take the first few sips, so good….and then…I set it down and let it go flat.

The craziness that unfolds during these episodes of inspiration and action should prove to me WHY I need to do it. Why can I constantly (literally weekly if not more) envision myself writing. And the few times I sit down to do it every couple of years is it mental attack after attack…insignificant, stop trying to be important, who is going to read this, why would anyone care what you have to say… and on and on.

The new question is - why am I worried about any of that? Maybe that is where God wants me to push through into obedience. Of the dozens of to do lists, action items and daily fires to put out, meals to make, emails to compose, nothing meets me in thought and vision as often as writing does.

In this last year, I’ve said it out loud to a few people… I need to write. As I walk closer with God, He’s at least given me the good sense to understand that at this point, if he continues to place something on my heart and I do nothing about it, I’m being disobedient. It takes me a while, but I eventually figure it out.

Quite honestly, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. I’ve been told most of my life I need to write by various family and friends. I’ve been told by my parents I filled notebooks as a child with my stories. I vaguely remember this, but I suppose that’s what happens when you’re into your 4th decade of this never ending rollercoaster of natural life.

So here we are. Me being obedient. Me also feeling stupid. And me deciding I’m going to do it anyway. Oh, I think that was the title of one of these posts I wrote just like this on one…Do It Anyway. Cringe.

The one vision I have most often is to always tie what I’m writing to a song. Either the song being the inspiration, or supporting the topic. I’m not sure why this keeps coming up either, but we’re going to let that one evolve in obedience, too.

I’m releasing whatever weirdness I have around writing, again. I think I’ve said that in one of these past posts, but this time of course, I truly mean it. At this point, you either think I’m an inspirational person who is determined, or I’m being sarcastic. Whatever gets you to the end is the correct answer. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m being sarcastic or not.

Right now it simply isn’t clear what this space is for. It would be wonderful if God would download maybe just a quick vision of what happens after I start writing, then again, thats a ridiculous request from someone who can’t seem to even get past this first step. Not to mention, thats just not our relationship, unlike some people, God doesn’t get very explicit with me about next steps and plans. I think due to…well, me, He is making the right choice.

My most favorite and applicable Bible verse is attached to this new venture - Romans 8:28 - His Glory. Our good. I don’t know any other way to explain whats going to happen here, so I’ll let that guide me.

Father, let this space be glorifying to you. Let it bring to light whatever it is you want to do. What I can say for sure, is this life has given me more than enough to write about.

Eighteen Years and one week.

Eighteen years ago today, you were one week old. Your hair still very dark brown, stick straight, and so long I could curl it around my pinkie. Your signature raspy cry was still soft and always adorable. You had that perfect, brand new skin that I can recall so very clearly with all of my senses. Especially your forehead. What IS it about newborn foreheads? I’d had a week of being a mom. A week of breastfeeding, changing diapers, cuddling, figuring out how to pee after an episiotomy… TMI? Sorry. Yes, I know you’ve heard about this a few times now as you get older…but…THEY DIDN’T WARN ME, or ask, or do anything to numb the pain before quite literally taking pair of silver scissors and cutting me like a piece of card stock!

I’m so sorry you had to listen to that (again), but I had to feel it 18 years ago and it’s just one of those things you’re never going to live down because you have a giant head. Those of us who were really “blessed” to experience a generation of medical practitioners who believed all medical intervention was better than a body naturally and gently doing things the way it knows how will someday corroborate my experience and the unnecessary trauma. I digress.

We grabbed a rhythm pretty quickly. At eighteen, I was just a baby myself, but I knew how to be a mom. It came very natural to me. To love and nurture you and care for you was what I was always meant to do.

On that Thursday evening, at one week old, I had a conversation with you at around 11PM. It’s a conversation that will forever be as vivid as the day we had it because I was smart enough to write it down for once. It’s one of the few whirlwind memories I have of your first year of life. I had on my purple Eeyore pajamas. I had just fed you. I was curled up with you on the futon, Kasey was on the other side laying on my feet like always.

Obviousl,y when I say I had a conversation with you, it consisted of me whispering into your neck and face; You were sleeping with your little fists folded into my chest. You were wearing my most favorite thing, a pale yellow sleep sack, lined with super soft, fluffy stuff that kept you nice and cozy. After I whispered my thoughts to you, I typed out our “conversation” on my high school graduation present from your grandparents, a brand spankin’ new Compaq Presario. I have saved the letter and transferred it from computer to computer through the years. It’s never felt like the “right time” to give it to you, but seeing as you’re 18, and you know it all now, I thought maybe this might be a good time.

Here is what I wrote you on October 4th, 2001. I didn’t correct anything, I’m just copying and pasting.

HAPPY ONE WEEK OLD BIRTHDAY. WOWWWW. I’ve been a mom for one week. I am pretty sure I’m the only one in my graduating class that can say that. This has been like a blur week. I feel like all I do is feed you and feel uncomfortable and try to make sure we both look clean for all of the people that want to visit. You have changed me so much already. My body for sure. Thanks for that, but hey you’re here, and we’re both going  to have to get used to that.

This world is different now, this month especially. Before you were born, I can’t even tell you how horrible this last few weeks has been. You are the bright spot in pretty much our whole family. There is lots of stuff I got to tell you about when you’re much older, but for now I just want to hope your innocence will stick around for a while. The world is different. I am different. Oh and remind me to tell you why I will probably always call you “my full circle baby”, you’re straight from God, thats for sure.

The really, really good news is that we are in this together. I don’t really know you. You don’t really know me either, but I’m kind of in charge of things, for a while anyway, which is REALLY scary, but I think I’ll take it a day at a time. Right now it feels like parenting will be so slow, but I am thinking it will probably go fast like all 40 something year olds tell me ALL the time. “Don’t blink” they say. Okay, fine, I won’t blink. But when I do blink and I miss something or I don’t do the right thing I hope you know that I tried really hard. Most of the time. Already this week I’m just so freaking tired and like on Sunday, I probably should have given you a bath, but instead I just wiped you down with a baby wipe, and slathered you in lotion and thought to myself “good as new!”, and I fell asleep in the parking lot at Walgreens when I just wanted to go pick up pictures I took of you your first day home because the weather was actually nice and I just wanted to leave the house by myself for 10 minutes.Of course it was more like 30 minutes and I freaked out worrying if Papa knew what to do for you when I was gone so long. No one but you knows I actually fell asleep for like 20 minutes on the steering wheel, so never tell, okay?

I kind of don’t want to give away any parenting secrets or anything so you’ll probably open this letter some day when I’m dead, if I remember to print it off and put it somewhere safe, or it doesn’t end up on a corrupt disk. Where was I again? Gosh. SO, ANYWAY, so far the only parenting secret I have is that I don’t have any secrets because its my first time doing this and I just have to learn and trust my instincts about what you need and who you are. I can’t even believe I have a kid even though I feel like a mom. I’m young, so I’m probably (already) going to get judged, and so are you if you’re a brat or whatever, so lets try to avoid that. Overall, I hope its true that I will learn as much from you as you learn from me. I feel like I have a lot to prove. I talked to Aunt Judy, she’s your great aunt, she told me that I have nothing to prove to anyone but I definitely want to prove to you that I’m going to be good at this even though I keep getting told all the time how I need to listen to everyone around me and soak up their experience and advise so I don’t make any mistakes because i’m already at a disadvantage for barely starting college. So, yeah, I DO have things to prove.

I’m going to make sure that no matter who comes in your life, that you will always have me. I don’t think I have a great relationship with your NANA. We fight ALOT. She is ALWAYS still trying to parent me. Thats why we need to move out, like yesterday. But anyway, your dad said a bunch of times this week that he’s glad I know what I’m doing because he doesn’t know what it means when you cry your different cries and when you are hungry and your umbilical cord thing seriously TERRIFIED him. He thought you would bleed to death if it got bumped or something. It was kind of funny. He’s a hard worker. He loves us. He’ll be fine after a while I think, right now, he’s really good at working hard and going to school again, and holding you when you sleep because he says you’re the “least breakable” then. Cute, right?

OH HERE IS A SECRET. I DON’T KNOW WHAT IN THE HELL I AM DOING. Fake it until you make it I guess is my motto. Also “SLEEP WHEN THE BABY SLEEPS” and I’m not doing that, so I guess I should try and fall asleep for a little while until you want to nurse again because we seriously do this every two hours and half the time we both fall asleep.

One more thing my little Sydney Leigh, I LOVE YOU! And I am pretty sure that unless you do something really horrible, by the time you read this, that will still be true. And everything we go through and all of the learning that I have to do to be a good mom for you and to be a good example for you and to be a good person in general as I get older and we do all the fun things that life has to offer……………..I’m pretty sure I will just love you more and more. I don’t know how thats possible right now, but I have a feeling.

When I read that I can’t believe its been eighteen years. It’s easy to see how young I was, how simple things were. Oh, how much I thought I knew at just the age you are now. I get it. I get how people were so worried about me being a mom at eighteen, because, I was just a kid. My writing voice is still the same, but hopefully, it has matured a bit. I notice how in this letter I’m at my most vulnerable, I’m not trying to sound intelligent, or well spoken. I’m an eighteen year old talking to her new baby. I kind of love that.

I regret spending a lot of time trying to prove that I wasn’t a stereotypical teen mom, that I could do it all, that I could have the perfect grown-up life. I think I missed a lot of little things. I’m sure all parents think back to what they might have done differently, but overall I think we’ve done okay, you and me. I think you’re a pretty fantastic human, and I will take an itty bitty amount of credit for that, but mostly, I think it’s just who you are.

Your birthday is always going to be a special day for so many reasons. You made me a mom, you’ve been my “first” for everything. We’re in the stage of life where lectures are more out of concern and advice since you’re an “adult” now, our arguments are a little more intense, and the discussion topics are quite a bit heavier. There has been a lot of life in your eighteen years, all of the most significant moments in my life began with your birth. With each passing year, there are new layers added to our relationship, and somehow I do keep finding new things that I love about who you are. That naive 18 year old new mom was right about something, I do love you more and more.