__[That Time I Forgot to Process] the Night You Were Born__ [9/22/17]

I heard the muffled sound of the garage door closing as Bo walked into the laundry room. He'd just returned from snagging an ice cream treat for us to enjoy once the babe was down for the count. 

We now have a nighttime routine: Bath. Feed. Read. Rock. Bed.

We'd begun feeding before Bo left and were done by the time he returned. The littlest Myers has to sit upright for around 15 minutes after eating to help with reflux/spit-up issues and at night, that typically looks like laying almost vertically on mom's chest sound asleep. Tonight was no different. He'd fallen asleep swifter and harder than usual (it's a tough life for a baby, we're learning) as was evidenced by him securely holding his pacifier in place--a skill at which he's only able to excel while sound asleep.

"Do we read or put him in the thing (sleep sack) and put him down?" Bo asked as he rounded the corner into the living room.

Looking down at the tiny, heavy breathing human on my chest, I replied, "We always read to him. Go grab a book."

He pulled one we hadn't yet read from the little one's generous collection. I had packed this particular book in our hospital bag, naively thinking there would be the time, energy, will, and emotional fortitude to read to him in the first days of his life on this side of things. It's called _On the Night You Were Born_.

As Bo read the poetic words to our peacefully sleeping son...and as I glanced down at the snoozing being then back to the colorful cardboard pages depicting how very special it was for every creature everywhere the night he was born, I was overcome with emotion.

The author makes it seem as though the entire cosmos has stopped in its tracks to celebrate another precious, uniquely beautiful life has entered the world. And in that universal pause, word of the blessed birth travels over land and sea as polar bears dance with delight, geese fly home, and ladybugs stay perfectly still as they take in the news. 

How special it was in this fictional world, in this tale geared toward our son that he had come into the world, and yet I somehow never stopped in the midst of it all to give the miracle a second thought...

I'm a "go-mode" person by nature. If I have a job to do, I don't stop until it's done. I'm nearly incapable of having fun or noticing beauty as I'm working on things until the business is finished. And even then, it's usually much later in retrospect, if at all. I guess labor and delivery was sort of like that. 

Sure, it was traumatic and life altering and unbelievable, so it sort of makes sense I'm just now processing the event some odd 6 weeks later. But I also know myself well enough to know I was thinking I had a job to do, so I went into "go-mode" and I did it...took a few breaths, then immediately dove into "go-mode" once more as I began the work of figuring out how to be a parent to this little person I'd brought into the world. And I haven't stopped since. 

I saw plenty of pictures and videos that loved ones took of the event itself, but it didn't seem like me I was witnessing on the other side of their camera lenses. And thus it took 6 weeks and a magical, eloquently written children's book to alert me to the holy and the sacred happenings that unfolded the night our son was born.

Countless warm tears traveled down my face as I finally felt the weight of what happened that night 6 weeks and some change ago, the weight of the blessedness this tiny human has gifted our lives, the weight of just how much I love him and would do absolutely anything for him. 

During our middle of the night feeding, the tears continued as I held him close and rocked him and caressed his tiny hand and ran my fingertips across his soft head and breathed in his smell. I'm struggling greatly (as I presume all parents do) with the thought of going back to work in a week and a half. I feel lost, conflicted, guilty. Though I'm not good at asking for help, I'd appreciate any and all prayers as I prepare to transition back into "life as I [knew] it" and as we finalize childcare for him. It crushes every part of me to think that someone else will be there for his "firsts" and that I will not, that I won't be with him all day every day as has been the only reality we've known. 

Other parents have survived, and I feel confident I will, too.  It just doesn't feel like it yet. In the meantime, please pray that the sacred and holy moments with our son are ones I absorb as they happen, that I wouldn't get so caught up in the "go-mode" of motherhood and soon-to-be pastorhood that I cannot appreciate and revel in the snuggles and the feedings and the rocking and the playtime as they unfold in these final weeks of "just us."

Thank you, friends. I covet your prayers and love in this season of life. 

The Quilt that Gifted Sleep...and Connection [9/7/17]

I gently picked up the part of the quilt closest to me so as not to wake the babe and to make sure it wasn't touching the spit up that was quickly growing cold as it dried on my oversized tshirt in the cool breeze.

It was one of those early mornings where the feedings went well but the aftermath was less than pretty. Fussing, acting hungry but only doing so due to gas/reflux and to fight the gravitational pull of sleep. 

He's strong and will often push up on my chest, lift his 95th percentile head, and look me straight in the eye. During these infamous mornings he does this continuously--up, whine, down, whine, up, whine, down, whine. This is the signal for me that I won't be able to soothe him without the help of movement. Off to PawPaw's rocker we go. For over an hour after the 30 minutes we'd already tried, we worked to find the magic that would lead to sleep. 

Position one failed miserably. Position two quickly went up in flames. Position three was a lost cause. Position four prevailed, dragging him squirming and against his will to Dreamland.

I laid him down.

Two hours later like clockwork, here we go again. Same bit. Ate well, fought the onslaught of sleep tooth and nail. To NeNe's rocker we go. This time there are no positions that will bring peace.

Up on my feet, we gently bounce back and forth. The method seems to slowly be working on him, but I find it's working on me as well. We have to sit...but he won't let me. What will we do? It's a little before 8 now and the sun is up. There's a swing on the back patio. "It just might work," I thought, cautiously hopeful. I unlock the door and begin to step outside when I'm greeted by the unseasonably cool Louisiana weather. 

The swaddle I've wrapped around him isn't enough. I rack my brain and remember that, though I was certain we wouldn't use it, I packed his quilt. I shuffle to the back in rhythmic movements, snatch up the quilt, and swiftly wrap it around the tiny and slightly ornery human. We plop down on the swing as I hold my breath fearing his eyes would become wide and alert, starting our little circus all over again.

I push off the cold concrete with my bare feet and away we go. Construction workers are sawing and nail-gunning and singing and slinging boards next door, so I wait for him to stir. Nothing. I can soon tell he's reached the point of sleep where he will not return to consciousness unless provoked.

I breathe out a sigh of relief and breathe in the crisp air and faint smell of sawdust lingering nearby. I ran my finger down the rough cut arm of the swing, trying not to panic about nor disturb the gecko who was silently keeping us company there. I gazed out at the lake with its water traveling all different directions as the light from the sun glinted off of it and the trees that line the outskirts of the waves and ripples for miles. I listened to the clanging and clamoring of the construction and the whirring of hummingbirds' wings as they fought one another to make their place at the feeder.

It hits me that I haven't consciously used my senses in over a month. Nor have I been thankful for the truth of the Divine to which those senses alert me as they have loyally done so throughout my lifetime. 

For me, it's a season of feeling disconnected...from most everything-- people, myself, God not excluded. No blame to cast, it is merely reality. Thank God for the countless strong an selfless mothers who have come to me boldly proclaiming, "Me too." They are the ones who carry me. 

All energy, power, time, thoughts, feelings I have are being poured into the tiny and slightly ornery human. One day I will learn to reconnect--with people, myself, and God--and while today might not be the day things click on all proverbial cylinders...the quilt gave me a chance to glimpse, a chance to remember what it feels like to be connected and hope for the day when it will consistently be so once more.

For now, we do the best we can. We make sure his needs are met. We tend the circus that is fussiness and fighting sleep. And in the meantime, I think I'll keep the quilt on hand--looking for the next opportunity to use it in the open air, looking for the next time I can intentionally use my senses, looking for the next time I can experience those ever-coveted point(s) of connection. 

Who knew a quilt of all things could be such a gift?