It was his third day of life, I think, when the midwife came over and he
weighed in too low. We were going to go
furniture shopping for the new house that day.
It was my third baby, my third boy, my third one to wear the same
outfits and be buckled into the same car-seat.
I knew what I was doing. And she
told me that that was exactly what was going to make this hard. I remember the patterns and the rhythms, but
they were new to my son. I needed to
listen to him, respond to him, look at him, sit with him, hold him, slow days down
for him. This third baby of mine was on
his first time at life.
I remember rolling my eyes a bit, only inwardly I hope. But I sat in my bed and took in my baby. I unzipped his sleeper and unbuttoned my
shirt and tried to slow down to just be with this brand new life. I read, napped, and snacked with him on my
chest. It didn’t come naturally but ‘fake
it till you make it’ has always been my parenting strategy anyway. And he cuddled and slept and fed and bounced
back by the next week’s check-up.
But I checked the box. I congratulated
myself on doing what he needed. And I moved
on.
Fast forward a few years and my now four-year-old son became a big
brother twice over in a week and a half.
Suddenly there was a baby and a toddler and the boy, still in the midst
of figuring himself out in the context of his two big brothers, wakes up very
much a middle child. Not big enough to be
one of the bigs. Not little enough to be
one of the littles. Not loud enough that
I noticed. I didn’t take enough breaths
to notice. I didn’t listen to enough
cries. I didn’t have enough hands. Or eyes.
Or laps. Or arms. Or sleep.
Jesus, I hope it’s not too late.
I hope I haven’t failed him. I hope
he finds his voice, the one I have silenced too many times. I hope he sees its power and influence in his
little world. I hope His Father redeems
all that’s been done and all that’s been left undone. Lord, could you slow days down for me so that
I can slow days down for this boy that I love?
