Three

April 28, 2009

If not for your feet — which happen to be identical to your father’s — I would think you must have been switched at birth. You are the most confident, independent, I’m-not-hung-up-on-what-anybody-thinks individual of all of us. Oh the joy you bring.

And oh to think you almost never were.

You see, I was done having babies after your brother and sister came along. And in order to make that clear to God, I gave away all their baby clothes. I had a girl, I had a boy, we were all set; as you know, I like nicely packaged things which I can control.

Then one day we were talking to some friends who mentioned they were going to let God decide how many children they would have. I thought, Oh how nice for them, and then did my best to ignore any recollections of the conversation. But your father, being the spiritual one around here, had to go and listen to God and wonder if there might be something in that little nugget for us too. I remember well the night he gently raised the question of whether or not our family was complete. If he wasn’t so loving and kind about it, I would have walked out of the room — slamming a few doors on my out I’m sure — told him he was crazy and refused to talk about it again. Instead, I burst into tears, literally begging God not to make me go through it again. Mainly I didn’t want to sacrifice my time, my energy, my (sort of) in-shape body or my future plans for…you. I am so sorry. I was an absolute fool.

Well, it’s a good thing God (and your father) are so patient because it took a lot for me to come around. My wrestle with God about what it means to surrender and trust Him will go down as one of the Top 5 Defining Moments of my life. And what an outstanding reward you are for that struggle.

I’ll spare you the gory details of how you arrived 10 days AFTER YOUR DUE DATE, or how you insist on wadding up pieces of tissue and shoving them up your nose despite how often you are threatened with a trip to the ER, or how you secretly torment your baby brother by pretending you want to hug him but slowly lower all who-knows-how-many-pounds of your dense body onto his skinny self until he’s nearly crushed, or how you are obssessed with anything that has to do with the potty — especially when you have a captive audience at the dinner table — or how you have perfected the art of Fits and Tantrums so much so that sometimes I have to resist the urge to stand back and applaud you for your effectiveness.

But just as you are challenging as all get out on one hand, you are unbelievably scrumptious on the other. Because you are so comfortable in your skin and don’t worry about what others think, you freely express your silly ideas, crazy notions and genuine love at will. When you say “I wuv you Mommy” after I tuck you in, I can hardly make it out the bedroom door. When you walk into the kitchen and say, “Guess who’s here!” every morning, I could eat you on the spot. When you ask if you can “work on the poo-coo-ter,” I want to squeeze your guts right out you are so cute.

When you offer to take Smokey (Aaron) with you to the store “in your car” to “go get ice cream” and then help him get in his seat and drive him around in endless circles in the backyard while you chat incessantly, I am hard-pressed to think of a more satisfying sight for a mother’s (tired) eyes.

God is gracious to have given me you. And as I’ve come to realize, you are worth infinitely more than my time, my energy, my (sort of) in-shape body or my future plans.

Happy birthday, son.

I love you,

Mama

Related posts:

1. Perspective
2. I hate stuff.
3. What is My Deal?

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