My son. My own son that I gave birth to. The son that I carried in me for months, safe and sound. The little infant baby born with a head full of hair that amazed everyone, who slept perfectly through church, not making a peep- amazing everyone. He's going to be seven months old tomorrow.
It's amazing to think that only seven months ago, I was still pregnant. I was frantically nesting, preparing for his arrival. Just a day later, I was wide awake, yet so exhausted, and could not find a way to stop staring at my own little miracle and fall asleep. People would say that the hospital was something of a blessing, that I needed to sleep as much as I could and let the nurses take care of him except when I needed to nurse. It's funny, because I didn't feel the need to sleep much and when I did, he was in my arms (something the nurses seriously frowned upon). I just wanted to look at him. And then when we went home, I had plenty of help with him. I was always so tired, but I loved to hold my little baby. He couldn't hold his head up hardly for more than a moment, so he was always in my arms snuggled close. Of course I've been tired and cranky, just wishing the baby would sleep but those moments are outweighed almost completely by the moments of gentle kisses, adorable newborn smiles as he drifts away to dreamland, and the smell of his hair after a bath.
Now he sits up straight on his own, he coos and talks baby talk, holds his own bottles, smiles and lifts his arms to reach for me when I lean over his baby crib in the morning to pick him up, smiles and laughs hysterically when I toss him up into the air. Just recently I started to throw him into the air and yell "Baby pizza!" First I lay him down on the ground and pull his toes up to his face and then back again, and then press my fist gently on his tummy. I do this over and over again saying "We gotta kneed it, and then punch it" as though I'm working the pizza dough. He chuckles and coos as I do this, and even more as I pick him up off the floor as though he knows what's coming. I dip him low and then shoot him up into the air as I yell "Baaaaby Pizzaaaa!"
When I went to Water Country USA in Virginia, there was a ride I can't remember the name of. All I remember is that you climb probably three or four stories to the top of a very slender structure. When it's your turn to go down the slide, you hop on what looks like a boogie board and they wheel you towards the edge. You look down and there is nothing. Nothing but the shallow pool you're supposed to land in as the slide shoots straight down and curves at the last moment to launch you forward. As you feel the hands push your back, you feel this adrenalin that seems to come from your gut. In a split second, the adrenalin starts gently somewhere deep in your body and shoots like lightning to the tips of your toes and fingers. And then it can go one of two ways. The adrenalin can shoot up all the way to your head and the only possible way not to die is to scream your head off as you plummet to the ground and you look like any other tourist as you stand up at the end of the ride, shaky legged and laughing. Or the adrenalin stops in your chest, bounces back and forth in your abdomen, and your body goes crazy in itself because it doesn't know what to do. You're so tensed up, but you could probably do some heavy lamaze breathing that might lead to the screaming and give your poor body some relief from the bomb going off inside. Or you can hold it in, clench your teeth and make weird grunting-clenching noises for two thirds of the way and then let out the last of your breath in a yell that might make you pass out, but the adrenalin keeps you awake through the entire thing. That's what happened to me.
And that's what happens to Lucas when I toss him into the air. He gets this grin of pure happiness on his face, and he scrunches up his body, holding in the shriek of laughter that's just dying to get out. By maybe the third or fourth time I throw him, he starts to laugh on his way back into my arms. He laughs. That wonderful, perfect and pure baby laugh. He laughs because I make him happy, and I love so very much to make him happy. I live to make this boy happy. He is my life, and every time I get to feel him fall back into my arms, safely and thrilled, it just makes me the happiest mother in the world. His smiles bring me such joy and warmth to my heart!
What brings me back to earth some times is thinking about how old he's getting. Seven months ago, I was hours away from going into labor. Then I had this frail, quiet baby boy born and resting on my chest not yet ready to cry. He simply stared quietly up at me before being swept away to get some oxygen so he would start to cry properly. My son had skinny, newborn arms and legs, a weak newborn neck, and a newborn cry that warms the heart of any mother of any age. Now he has chunky baby legs with mild fat creases that go up to his adorably dimpled chunky baby butt, a strong neck and back that holds him upright as he plays with the lullaby giraffe his aunty Jess got him for my baby shower, and strong lungs that produce a cry you can hear a mile away I'm sure. Within the next few months, he will be completely mobile and begin to talk and babble a bit more clearly. He will be eating real food (with limits of course) and he will almost be a year old.
This boy is growing entirely too fast for me to keep up right now. He is so beautiful, and I can see the changes in his face lately. He's so smart and loves to see and touch new things, to learn. I am so, so thrilled to live through the next things that he is going to go through. To see him develop and grow, learn and play. To see him take his first steps and wobble around on his unsteady toddler legs, smiling that big toothy smile, see his eyes light up, and see that curly, wild head of hair ripple in the wind as he runs around chasing the dogs, or even the leaves on the sidewalk. I'm excited for his first Thanksgiving, eating the sweet potatoes and other great foods. His first Christmas, where he can rip into the presents early in the morning. His first Easter, oh my goodness! That's something I will really get excited about. He'll be over a year old and wobbling around on those cute little toddler legs, in adorable baby jeans and a flannel button up.
Good heavens. He makes me old and keeps me young all in the same breath and I just hope he loves me when he hits his teenage years.
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