I've been watching him more intently these last few months. His tantrums grew more intense, his ability and desire to sit through a book grew longer, his eyelashes seemed longer, his giddiness at getting a cup of milk or a "nack" more fun to behold, he has been turning two for a while now.
But today is the anniversary of his birth.
Early this morning, he got out of his bed and came to my room, "mom, mama," he said as he peered through the crack in my door. I said, come in, and he ran over and reached for me to pull him into bed with me. He climbed in and began to count to ten for me, upon reaching 10, he said "ten, ten, ten, ten," opening and closing his fingers. Then he let me know he is fully aware of his body parts, moving from head, to eyes, mouth, teeth, nose, ears, fingers, legs and feet, labeling them all for me.
He nuzzled his sweet face under my neck, making sure our faces were able to love each other for a little while. And I just breathed him in and remembered staring at him in my hospital bed two years ago.
As I watched him as a newborn, trying to figure out all of the colors in his eyes, I asked that time slow down. And over the course of the two years, I came to realize that I was responsible for slowing down time by taking in my child as slowly and often as I could.
I heard him make the "g" sound for the first time last week. He moved from saying, "all done" to "all gone." As family and friends say happy birthday to him, he responds, "happy birday" back. I guess it sounds like a greeting, similar to good morning, maybe. He wasn't sure about the candle in his waffle this morning and after his brother and I sang and said blow, he finally pushed enough air through his sweet little lips to extinguish the flame.
He will take my hand off the keyboard when I'm typing and reach to be picked up or he'll take my hand and place his cup in my hand entreating me to get him more milk. The cutenesses of this kid are too numerous to name, but oh, wait until I tell him to do something, he'll stonewall me, by staring at something facing the other direction, deliberately and stubbornly ignoring my requests or demands.
I watched him sleep the other day, and couldn't believe how long he had grown as he stretched out in his bed. And just last night, I let him fall asleep in my arms, so I could see if his face still held traces of the newborn I fell in love with two years ago. His eyelids resting on his big beautiful eyes and his eyelashes kissing his cherub cheeks nodded to the brand new baby who graced my life two years ago. But his chubby cheeks and wrinkled brow said, hello 2! Goodbye baby!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
On writing and narrating stories
We all write ourselves into something... our destiny, our relationships, our image of ourselves.
Sometimes our image of ourselves relies heavily on tearing other people down to build ourselves up, to reinforce how we want to be seen or how we believe we are seen. Some people write fictional narratives to justify their choices, to make themselves look better in the eyes of others, in their own eyes. These people refuse to see anything else other than what they've written about themselves and others, forsaking logic and honesty.
Other times, we nourish others, listen, try to reason, be honest and try to be peaceful in order to reinforce how we want our story to go.
Of course there are many in-betweens...
Some people choose a career and a path at an early age. One of my good friends decided to be an ob/gyn as a teenager and chose to have a big family. She's now practicing in the field she chose for herself and just added her fourth child to her family. She's been with her husband for twenty years and they are only in their early thirties. I've found beauty and inspiration in her strength to move through her tragedy to continue towards the destiny she chose for herself.
After recalling her story and experiencing my own tragic experience, I'm revising what I've allowed to be written for me. I've had many people give both solicited and unsolicited input on what my story should look like. Many people had good intentions and spoke with love. Only a small few, wrote a narrative so false, so ugly, to tear me down to build themselves up. For a while I bought into the narrative and believed portions of the story, questioning myself, my choices.
I'm remembering these people who write untruths do so to bolster their own narratives which bolsters their egos. These narcissists who write whatever they choose whenever they choose do so for themselves only. These people from whom I'd like to escape, but they've written themselves in such a way, that they will always be present. All I can do is remember the truth about these people.
As I remember the truth, I revise their place in my own narrative.
Sometimes our image of ourselves relies heavily on tearing other people down to build ourselves up, to reinforce how we want to be seen or how we believe we are seen. Some people write fictional narratives to justify their choices, to make themselves look better in the eyes of others, in their own eyes. These people refuse to see anything else other than what they've written about themselves and others, forsaking logic and honesty.
Other times, we nourish others, listen, try to reason, be honest and try to be peaceful in order to reinforce how we want our story to go.
Of course there are many in-betweens...
Some people choose a career and a path at an early age. One of my good friends decided to be an ob/gyn as a teenager and chose to have a big family. She's now practicing in the field she chose for herself and just added her fourth child to her family. She's been with her husband for twenty years and they are only in their early thirties. I've found beauty and inspiration in her strength to move through her tragedy to continue towards the destiny she chose for herself.
After recalling her story and experiencing my own tragic experience, I'm revising what I've allowed to be written for me. I've had many people give both solicited and unsolicited input on what my story should look like. Many people had good intentions and spoke with love. Only a small few, wrote a narrative so false, so ugly, to tear me down to build themselves up. For a while I bought into the narrative and believed portions of the story, questioning myself, my choices.
I'm remembering these people who write untruths do so to bolster their own narratives which bolsters their egos. These narcissists who write whatever they choose whenever they choose do so for themselves only. These people from whom I'd like to escape, but they've written themselves in such a way, that they will always be present. All I can do is remember the truth about these people.
As I remember the truth, I revise their place in my own narrative.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
On authenticity
I've spent a great deal of my life being fake, pretending, being inauthentic. The reasons vary: to keep the peace, to shove the situation under the rug, to not be called names, to not hurt someone's feelings, it's easier.
And though I am grateful for this new space to be completely me...I realize with some people in my circle, authenticity can not exist. I grow, become more myself, yet, I still lie to keep the peace. I quietly accept lies in order not to aggravate the situation. I am quiet and pretend to accept someone's lies in order to maintain some faux sense of ...
I am more grateful than ever for those with whom I can be authentic and truly trust...I am hopeful that this group will continue to grow. I need authentic relationships and people to balance out the inauthentic ones and to help me to keep growing and becoming me.
And though I am grateful for this new space to be completely me...I realize with some people in my circle, authenticity can not exist. I grow, become more myself, yet, I still lie to keep the peace. I quietly accept lies in order not to aggravate the situation. I am quiet and pretend to accept someone's lies in order to maintain some faux sense of ...
I am more grateful than ever for those with whom I can be authentic and truly trust...I am hopeful that this group will continue to grow. I need authentic relationships and people to balance out the inauthentic ones and to help me to keep growing and becoming me.
On reading to little people
Ezra grabs my heart when he grabs a book, brings it to me and says, "book." And I remember so fondly reading this same books to Elijah at this age. And they both loved hearing the stories, my sing-song voice, the pictures, the red balloon and the old lady whispering hush, the 3 plums, four oranges, the crickets and Polar Bear, Polar Bear, and Please, Baby, Please.
They also both turned the pages of the books before I finished reading the page or grabbed more books for me to read, when I finished one. I love looking at Ezra's eyes gaze with wonder at the pictures as I read and point. It's a small thing, but it's a beautiful moment in our hectic lives.
They also both turned the pages of the books before I finished reading the page or grabbed more books for me to read, when I finished one. I love looking at Ezra's eyes gaze with wonder at the pictures as I read and point. It's a small thing, but it's a beautiful moment in our hectic lives.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
On being 7
For the last two days, Elijah has been wiggling this loose tooth, hoping it would fall out. Last night, I tried to twist it for him; but I just wasn't up to the task.
As we witnessed the first droplets of blood, I thought it was time. "If you keep wiggling it, it will come out." He did. And I was so proud that he was persistent, he was determined and was not afraid of the blood, was not afraid of hurting himself. I love these things about this little boy, in addition to the way his imagination works. He was seven! His new independence had come in full force..just like his two year old brother who insists on feeding himself, despite how little makes it to his mouth or pushes himself out of the chair and onto the floor when he is unable to assert and be rewarded for his new independence.
The parallels between these two ages is remarkable.
My seven year old's mind went to work explaining how his classmates wanted to know if the tooth fairy would come and how much money he would get.
Elijah took a trip into the recesses of his imagination and then detoured into logic-ville with his desire for rationale explanations he questioned the existence of fairies. (This same child insisted that Santa Claus was real when I told him Santa didn't exist. This child told me to listen to the Christmas songs and that proved Santa was real) He got to thinking and talking, "I wonder when will the tooth fairy come? midnight? How does she get the money to give me? Does she turn into someone and then go to the bank to get the money and then turn back into herself? Does she buy the money? I bet her house is made of tooths, I mean teeth. I think her doorknob is one big tooth... I'm going to wake up early in the morning to see what I got."
I let him call his grandmother and she fueled his excitement by saying maybe the tooth fairy would give him a lot of money since he pulled the tooth out himself. She seemed to forget our most recent conversation about the energy bill.
I snatched a single from Elijah's birthday money that I had put away for him to spend in February and slid it under his pillow. He spoke unintelligibly as I lifted his head and felt for the Ziplock baggie.
I rubbed some ointment on his itchy skin, kissed him good night and felt blessed.
As we witnessed the first droplets of blood, I thought it was time. "If you keep wiggling it, it will come out." He did. And I was so proud that he was persistent, he was determined and was not afraid of the blood, was not afraid of hurting himself. I love these things about this little boy, in addition to the way his imagination works. He was seven! His new independence had come in full force..just like his two year old brother who insists on feeding himself, despite how little makes it to his mouth or pushes himself out of the chair and onto the floor when he is unable to assert and be rewarded for his new independence.
The parallels between these two ages is remarkable.
My seven year old's mind went to work explaining how his classmates wanted to know if the tooth fairy would come and how much money he would get.
Elijah took a trip into the recesses of his imagination and then detoured into logic-ville with his desire for rationale explanations he questioned the existence of fairies. (This same child insisted that Santa Claus was real when I told him Santa didn't exist. This child told me to listen to the Christmas songs and that proved Santa was real) He got to thinking and talking, "I wonder when will the tooth fairy come? midnight? How does she get the money to give me? Does she turn into someone and then go to the bank to get the money and then turn back into herself? Does she buy the money? I bet her house is made of tooths, I mean teeth. I think her doorknob is one big tooth... I'm going to wake up early in the morning to see what I got."
I let him call his grandmother and she fueled his excitement by saying maybe the tooth fairy would give him a lot of money since he pulled the tooth out himself. She seemed to forget our most recent conversation about the energy bill.
I snatched a single from Elijah's birthday money that I had put away for him to spend in February and slid it under his pillow. He spoke unintelligibly as I lifted his head and felt for the Ziplock baggie.
I rubbed some ointment on his itchy skin, kissed him good night and felt blessed.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
On sensitivity
"Mommy, which one should we get?" Elijah asked. "Whichever one you like," I replied. "I think we should get this one (the red, green and white snowflake one) because it has more color than this one (the snowman)."
I secretly smiled and thought, this is my child through and through. He wants to make the best decision. He responds positively to color and seeks it out. I didn't know I was teaching him these things, but I guess when I marvel at autumn trees or talk about the different colors on our dinner plates, I'm teaching him to be sensitive to color.
A gift, this sensitivity can be.
At times, it can be a burden. We walked to the children's workshop in Lowe's the other day and Elijah didn't want to build the featured item. He explained that when he walked near the working kids, his stomach started doing flips. I cringed that I heard myself in him. I hated that he inherited my burdensome natural inclination to flee uncomfortable situations. I would rather him not have the negatives that accompany this sensitivity.
However, who can resist a child who sits and drinks hot chocolate with his mother, finishes and says, "Thank you for making me hot chocolate, mommy. That hot chocolate made my heart warm."
Or when the current outdoor resident of our local Target asks for money for long johns, my almost-seven-year old, says "aren't you going to give him some money." When I respond "no;" he says, "if I was a man, I would go to the bank and get some money and bring it to that man."
I secretly smiled and thought, this is my child through and through. He wants to make the best decision. He responds positively to color and seeks it out. I didn't know I was teaching him these things, but I guess when I marvel at autumn trees or talk about the different colors on our dinner plates, I'm teaching him to be sensitive to color.
A gift, this sensitivity can be.
At times, it can be a burden. We walked to the children's workshop in Lowe's the other day and Elijah didn't want to build the featured item. He explained that when he walked near the working kids, his stomach started doing flips. I cringed that I heard myself in him. I hated that he inherited my burdensome natural inclination to flee uncomfortable situations. I would rather him not have the negatives that accompany this sensitivity.
However, who can resist a child who sits and drinks hot chocolate with his mother, finishes and says, "Thank you for making me hot chocolate, mommy. That hot chocolate made my heart warm."
Or when the current outdoor resident of our local Target asks for money for long johns, my almost-seven-year old, says "aren't you going to give him some money." When I respond "no;" he says, "if I was a man, I would go to the bank and get some money and bring it to that man."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
On "Nigh-Nigh"
One of my favorite moments of the day, is when Elijah and Ezra say "nigh-nigh, kisses, and love you" to each other just before retiring. It is filled with such love that I feel so blessed to witness.
And just a little while later, I cherish holding my growing-too-quickly baby boy while his breathing retards and his chubby hand touches my bare skin, either on my neck, chest or face. His head becomes weighted and rests perfectly on my bosom. He has shown a preference to my left side; it must be more cushiony. Elijah once told me, "I love you mommy, you're soft." Sometimes, Ezra is giddy before drifting off; he'll laugh or talk in a sing-songy manner. Every now and then, he predicts that I'll sing to him and will begin, "Geeee,...." and continue to sing as he expects me to sing "Jesus Loves Me."
I try to inhale his baby-ness, the amazing-ness of those moments. I just want to hold him and rock him because one day I'll turn around and he'll be 7 asking why he has to pick up food from the floor, telling me "I'm not the janitor."
And just a little while later, I cherish holding my growing-too-quickly baby boy while his breathing retards and his chubby hand touches my bare skin, either on my neck, chest or face. His head becomes weighted and rests perfectly on my bosom. He has shown a preference to my left side; it must be more cushiony. Elijah once told me, "I love you mommy, you're soft." Sometimes, Ezra is giddy before drifting off; he'll laugh or talk in a sing-songy manner. Every now and then, he predicts that I'll sing to him and will begin, "Geeee,...." and continue to sing as he expects me to sing "Jesus Loves Me."
I try to inhale his baby-ness, the amazing-ness of those moments. I just want to hold him and rock him because one day I'll turn around and he'll be 7 asking why he has to pick up food from the floor, telling me "I'm not the janitor."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
