And Farther Still

It's ten o'clock and I know where everyone is sleeping.

Elias in his big boy bed in his new room that we re-arranged today on his urging for the third time since we moved into this ranch style home. First he wanted his bed closer to the door so when he sneaks out in the early morning hours he doesn't have to travel as far. This time he decided he wanted his shelf closer to his bed so his books are right by his reading pillow. Makes sense. So we obliged.

Nick is in the door-less some-day family-room/temporary-bedroom (till we eventually transform what is now the "storage" room into our master-suite.) I can hear him breathing. Every so often he says something in his sleep.

And Olive is in her car-seat on top of the trunk at the end of our bed, despite an antique borrowed bassinet two feet away from her, let her alone her very own room with a crib and a Moses basket within it. No. The car-seat. Her all-in-one vehicle for transportation from the stroller to the car to the land of milk-soaked dreams where everything fits into her mouth and never falls on the floor.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table and I can see Nick and Olive from here. Nick retired early tonight, sacked out on Nyquill after catching Elias's cold, and amazingly Olive cooperated, falling asleep easily, in unison with her Dad.

To those of you in the throws of colic, better known as the night terrors of a newborn's persistent screams, it really does get better. 

Really. It. Does.

I didn't believe it when I sobbed on the couch, right along with her, exhausted, frustrated, feeling like a failure because I was unable to comfort my six-week old child. But now that she's almost four months and smiling and cooing and responding to my interventions when she does fuss, its hard to remember how miserable we all were just a handful of weeks ago.

Ah, the brain. Such a trickster. Like a raven, laughing at us as we forget-- intoxicated by our children's smiles we blackout those nights we almost walked out on them, fearing we weren't strong enough to be their parents.

"I'm done," we thought once on a sleepless dark night when the screaming made our necks twitch and we finally understood the fine line between rocking and shaking.

But we are stronger than we thought. We endure.

And oh is it worth it.

I hold Olive now in the evenings, after Elias goes to bed, during her former witching hours, 8:00 pm and beyond, and just marvel at her rugged beauty. Her brown eyes that lock onto mine. Her beloved fat rolls on her arms and legs. Her pink cheeks.The grime that hides in her neck, curdled milk and dog hair and lint and oh how I love it all.

No more or less than I love Elias.

But different.

Its an easier love I hold for my robust full-term daughter. A love not yet burdened by grief.

"I'm scared to let myself love him," I told one of the night nurses during Elias's first week, when no one could tell us if he would survive the trauma of his early birth. I can't remember her exact words but she asked me if I would really feel better if he died and I hadn't let myself love him. I realized that no walls could protect me. And chose love.

Besides, I loved the idea of him long before I met him. I cut beer and wine from my diet and counted the weeks till his arrival, marking the days on my pregnancy calendar, a maternal countdown of longing and dreams.

Ahhh.

But my idea of a child did not include respirators and brain surgery and a whole medical team to keep him alive.

My idea of a child did not include disabilities, a handicapped parking pass, and diapers at age six.

But what the hell is an idea of a child anyways?

There are no blood and bones in a projection. No curdled milk beneath the chin. No real life being to shake you free of expectations and teach you how strong you are after all. To teach you again and again that you aren't in control. Never were. Never will be.

You can hang up a calendar. Turn it from March to April. Write your appointments and activities in those perfectly symmetrical boxes. Plan for next week. Go to sleep early with thoughts of tomorrow.

But who knows what the dawn will bring.

Maybe a little six-year-old boy will crawl in bed with you and snuggle against your warm back as you curl yourself around your growing baby girl and maybe just maybe you'll wake knowing you can stretch even farther.

And farther still.

Comments

[niksmom]

Beautiful. And yes, it's amazing how far we find we can stretch, how deeply we can love even though it sometimes hurts or firghtens us. Somehow, that immense love shines through.

[Shelley]

That's what being a parent is all about. Being able to stretch and grow to meet the needs of your kids and also being able to let them stretch and grow the meet their needs themselves--however they choose to do it.