Moments

Over the weekend I was running errands with Luke in tow. Having skipped his nap in lieu of playing and squealing and being a toddler, he was resting his heavy head on my chest as we stood in line at the check out. His bustling little body and busy hands, now resting on my shoulder with a gentle grip on my shirt collar.

I had just been making arrangements for his next surgery prior to our stop at the store and was lost in thought running through mental notes of what still needed to be secured for his procedure. I was swaying back and forth, Luke slowing drifting in and out of sleep. I kissed his head, gave him a snuggling squeeze, and breathed him in. The woman in line behind me kindly leaned forward and very sweetly told me to make sure I enjoy these moments – that one day they will be gone too quickly.

I nodded my head and gave her a smile, thanked her, and proceeded to check out, all the while thinking to myself – “she doesn’t know”.

She doesn’t know how my heart yearned for him before he was ever conceived. She doesn’t know the absolute and sheer elation of confirming a pregnancy I thought would never happen. The 6 pregnancy tests I took on Mother’s Day morning (not to mention all the ones in days prior) and the tackling leap I made into my husband’s arms afterward. Or, that before I even took those 6 tests, I had an instinct that told me I was pregnant and saved me from taking a medication an ER doctor prescribed because he said I “likely lost the baby and probably have irritable bowel”.

She doesn’t know that when I heard his heartbeat for the very first time, it was the most beautiful and breathtaking sound I would ever know. That it was strong and quick, and such a gift. And that 13 weeks later that same heartbeat, as strong as it was, would lead us to discovering he had a critical congenital heart defect.

She doesn’t know the shock I felt, and that in an instant, all my joy was replaced with stagnating fear.

She doesn’t know the journal I started for him that Mother’s Day, telling him how much he was wanted and already loved. Or the letters I would write to him from my heart, sharing happenings of our day, and then telling him of his diagnosis, and how much it hurt.

She doesn’t know that I ceased all planning on his nursery. That I closed the door to the room where he would one day sleep, and for a little while, closed the door to my heart. That I didn’t want a baby shower, clothing, toys or empty albums, because it hurt too much – the thought he might never use them and I might never get to fill them.

She doesn’t know the sadness that overcame me or how hard I fought to push it out – and won.

She doesn’t know that on the day I pulled out all the stops and made a decision to love in spite of all the “what-ifs”, the door to his room reopened and with it, a tide of love so strong, it would wipe out anything and anyone in its path. That that very room would become the only place I would find solace and safety, and feel close to him when I came home, and he didn’t.

She doesn’t know how weeks of ultrasounds and tests leading up to his birth brought me closer to him. How seeing his magnificent and delicate body flicker across a screen, learning every facet of his heart, would further solidify my commitment to him.

She doesn’t know how with every passing day, carrying his beautiful body in my womb, knowing full well challenges would lie ahead, that I vowed to love him through it all. For hours I would sit, talking to just him, loving him. I would lie awake in the night – his most active time – just to feel him move because I feared I might never have the chance once he was born.

She doesn’t know how hard and often I prayed, begging God to just let me keep him. And that no matter what, I would love him in life and I would love him in death, if God called him home.

She doesn’t know how I labored with him – becoming so ill, both our lives in jeopardy. The moments when his heart rate began to plummet and my body was giving out. Facing a heart-wrenching reality and making it known that at all costs, Luke must be saved.

She doesn’t know once he was born, I never heard his first cry or that I don’t fully remember him being laid beside me an hour later, his precious face I would not see through all the tape and tubing. Three days I would wait to see him again and the reunion, so much like coming home. The other half of my heart lying in a NICU, so frail, so tiny – so mine.

She doesn’t know the hours upon hours I spent at his bedside. So many sleepless nights of worry and because I just wouldn’t leave him. Setting alarms reminding me to pump because it was the only thing I could do for my baby, and all the while, machine suctioning, I would sob. I sobbed because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I sobbed because I wanted my baby to my breast, not a sterile, cold machine. I sobbed because I had seen another mother lose her precious boy just moments before, and I too, now understood the delicate balance of life. And I sobbed.

She doesn’t know the fears and tears I have shed – joy and sadness. Handing my baby to a surgeon, not knowing if he would ever come back to me and when he did, the rejoicing in my heart at his new life.

She doesn’t know how my heart was being prepared for a baby I thought I might lose – a baby that I needed more than he ever needed, or will need me.

If she knew these things…how I still rock him before bed every night, sometimes to his dismay. Or that I check on him before I drift to sleep and then again like clockwork, awake in the middle of the night, to watch him breathe. That I see him – really see him – play and interact, and I admire him, adore him, for all he has achieved.

If she knew we still have a pebbly and uncertain road ahead, or all the many ways he’s making strides. That a milestone is so much more than that – it is extraordinary – and how my heart swells and leaps when he learns something new and is so proud of himself.

And when he’s racing around all full of boy – screaming and yelling and dirty, causing fantastic destruction in his path, and so trustingly throws himself into my arms, I feel his heart thumping and pumping, red cheeks and sweaty brow — I know. I know full well, these are the moments. Such precious moments. If she knew all my heart holds – life-altering experience that cannot be unseen or unfelt – she would know, it is in these moments that I fully live every minute of every day.

Life lived isn’t always to be measured in years. It is in the depth. Live fully. Love deeply. No regrets. Mind the moments.

Enough

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“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much Mommy loves you?”

As I drew him into my chest, nestled tightly in my arms, I whispered in his ear. I tickled him under the arm, he giggled and squirmed, trying to toddle away – I only had his attention for a few seconds. I snuck a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose, and just like that, he was off again.

He’s 18 months now and ready to take on his world. He’s curious, and yet, still cautious. He’s bold. He is relentless and can be impatient. He is determined. He is focused. His enthusiasm is unbridled and untainted. There is adventure waiting, and he’s on the cusp of the age where he knows it. He is sensitive. All animals – fictional or otherwise – are friends (or named, Greta), and are deserving of his hugs and kisses. His heart is real and it is big.

Growing up, I was a very sensitive child. I was the kid who wore her heart on her sleeve, apologized to my animals, made sure no one felt left out. I was the girl who sat with the lonely kid because I couldn’t, not. I treated others – including inanimate objects – with the sensitivity and attention I so desperately craved. I learned early on the world was not as soft as my stuffed animals, and not everyone would treat me in the same way.

I was young, I can’t recall the exact age, but I can pinpoint one of my very first moments of rejection. I wanted to climb in to my mother’s lap. I wanted to snuggle. To feel secure, to feel safe. I was rejected. It was “too hot” or she was “too busy” or I was “too heavy”. Transition to pre-teen years when I was self-conscious, even more sensitive. My self-esteem was a seesaw that in a moment, could plummet to the unforgiving asphalt beneath. I was mocked by my own mother for doing my hair, painting my nails – for what I now realize, was taking a little pride in my physical self. In those moments, teetering low, I prayed the black abyss would swallow me whole. I was devastated. I spent most of my childhood being a social chameleon just to get the acceptance I so deeply wanted. Needed.

I eventually learned to laugh it all off – rejection. My skin grew thicker, my emotions buried deeper, only to be unlocked in later years. I have grown and learned since I was a child. I realized I could live like a victim, I could continue to love in spite of it all, or I could become cynical. My choice vacillated between #2 and #3.

I wanted to be everyone’s everything. I wanted to be the favorite. I wanted to be the pretty one. I wanted to be the thin one. I wanted to be the popular one. I wanted to be the athletic one. I wanted to be the smart one. I wanted to be the creative one. I wanted to be the funny one. I wanted to be the trusted friend. I wanted to be everything – to be it all. The people pleaser – THAT’S ME! I wanted to be loved. I soon realized that in order to have everyone like me, I had to be many things, and it was exhausting. To some, I was too nice, so I needed to be tougher. To others I was too aloof, so I needed to be more sociable. It left me realizing that I no longer knew who I was.

It’s taken time and experience for me to realize not everyone will like me – and that’s okay. I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.

I am certain as I continue this blog and my honest writing, I may have friends who depart from my life. And I also know, I will gain new ones. Before I started this blog I worried constantly about putting myself out there, and in my inevitable style, made a pro and con list. It was PACKED with “what ifs.” What if someone doesn’t like the real me? What if someone thinks I’m weird? What if I offend someone? What if I’m doing life all wrong? What if someone takes what I write the wrong way? WHAT IF?! And in the pro column, scribbled all by its lonesome, “why not now.”

The time to be real is now. To be authentically and unapologetically, YOU.

Although I occasionally still get stuck on that seesaw and can get caught up in the cycle, I know I cannot be everyone’s everything. I can’t be everyone’s favorite, everyone’s friend. People will love me and people will hate me. People will judge me and people will accept me. Take me or leave me, people will be people and my purpose in this life is not to win them over.

We were not placed on this earth for everyone to like us. We are here to be true to the individual purposes we have been given.

I know one of my purposes: to give all the love I have to a brave and beautiful boy with innocence in his eyes and a spirit bright as the sun. I know I am here to give him myself. My time, my energy, my hugs, my kisses. To put all my heart into raising him, nurturing him, helping him grow into everything he can be. I can’t be a favorite to everyone, but I can be his favorite. Every time I put down the phone, the to-do lists, toss out the worry, the fears. Every time I scoop his 25 pound body into my arms and smell his hair. Every time I lay on the floor and let him crawl all over me. Every time I make his day by taking him to the park for a run, act silly and [so badly] dance around the room to watch him laugh. Every time I play cars, roll the ball, and scream and yell just because we can. Every time I rock him and sing our special song. Every moment I am consistent and faithful in following through on my promises to him, and to raising him with all the best that is in me – that is enough. Every hour. Every day. Every week. That is why I am here.

I have a little boy who needs to know that being himself is more than enough. And when the day comes when the world reveals its true colors and his heart is bruised, I will not let it harden. I will tell him,

“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much I love you? Always be you, no matter what. You are more than enough. Not everyone will like you, and that’s okay. You are loved. You are always loved.”

We are all enough. You are enough. I am enough. Quirks, flaws, highest highs and lowest lows, you are enough. Don’t you ever change. You are loved. Always loved.