Has it really been seven years since I first picked you up out of your green and blue car seat? Seven years since I heard your Oma say to a crying you, "Don't cry. Your mommy is coming with your bottle." And I looked around wondering who she was talking about? Oh, that was me. I was the mommy. I was your mommy.
I held you in my arms and said, "Kaleb," and you gave me a blank stare. Then I said, "Julien." I got another blank stare. So much for the theory of looking at your child, then naming him depending on what he looked like. You looked like a Kaleb. You looked like a Julien. But really you looked like a Jory. That's what you had been called since before I knew you existed and that was who you were. Strange to think that when I started my fost/adopt classes; your birth mother might not have even known she was pregnant with you. But you were in there, growing, waiting to make your appearance one early Christmas morning.
I remember the baby who had me up at 1 and 2AM and got us watching not only Conan, but later Pope John Paul II death watch. I learned more than I ever thought I would about Pope John Paul II. And how Auntie Heather found a Catholic station on the web so we could know when a new Pope was chosen. And how for a while there you were this close to having the middle name John-Benedict. Yep, I was that impressed with Pope Benedict XVI.
And how I almost had you baptized in a Catholic church because any male baptized Catholic would be in the running for Pope. Yes, the last Pope chosen from amongst laymen was in the 1300s, but still there was a chance. And how awesome would that have been to say at a dinner party (cause Mommy goes to so many of those), “Oh Jory, what’s he up to? Oh, he’s the Pope. Pope John-Benedict I” SCORE! I mean that would have been after you married, had kids, and were widowed. It would have been awesome to say, “My son’s the Pope.” But I didn’t because I didn’t think it would be fair to change a two, three-month-old’s name so your named remained unchanged, but your brother’s middle name will definitely be John-Benedict.
I remember the four-month-old who gave me my first heart attack. I woke up and knew something was wrong. My precious baby boy was dead from SIDS. I hopped out of bed, leaned over your crib, put my hand underneath your nose and felt nothing. I put my hand to your chest. Thankfully it was still beating. You weren’t dead, you had just slept the whole night for the first time ever. Amazing how I had slept for decades the whole night through, yet in only four months you let me do it once and I wake up convinced my greatest fear had come true. Oh the power you hold over me little boy.
I remember the eleven-month-old who spent his first Black Friday in Aunt Whitney’s Mustang (man, I miss the Cherokee still). Darting here and there because our whole family was out shopping, except for Oma who had to work. You were such a trooper. You even learned to perfect your walk on the baby and toy aisles of the Culver City TJ Maxx while Auntie Mona and Aunt Lavonia bought every pink and purple outfit they could find for the long awaited girl child Auntie Mona was having. You went from 4AM to 10PM that day and if I hadn’t already been madly in love with you then, this day would have sealed it forever for me.
I remember the seventeen-month-old who drove me crazy by calling me "Ash" instead of mommy though whenever you played or talked to someone else you referred to me as mommy. I waited my whole life to be called mommy and there you were saying "Ash," then giggling hysterically afterwards. You knew you were wrong. I was confounded, I was happy and thought for safety reasons it was good for you to know my first name, but on the other hand that wasn't what you were suppose to call me. Thank God that sorted itself out.
I remember the potty training toddler who would put on his own jacket then his little Rugrats backpack filled with a change of clothes, a small Tupperware bowl full of cheerios, and your sippy cup.
I remember the boy who was and is in love with all boy things....cars, trucks, trains, planes. Thank you for making shopping for you so easily.
I am in love with the little boy who opened his heart and his arms to his sisters. The eighteen-month-old who would find a pacifier, a blanket, or a bottle whenever he heard Willow crying. Granted, you had to suck the pacifier first though it only took one suck on her formula filled bottle for you to learn to carry her bottle in your hand and not in your mouth. (Funny how tastes change so quickly, six months before that was all you had for a year.) And you would always drag her blanket across the floor. Maybe it was too heavy for you to carry?
I remember the little boy who would give me heart attacks when he picked up Sasha after hearing her tiny preemie cry. I couldn't scream in case you dropped her, but yikes those steps to rescue her out of your tiny two-year-old arms were the longest steps of my life.
The little boy who loved his sister Sasha, lost her, and years later asked me, "Why did you give my sister away?" Oh how my heart broke to hear you ask me that. And later it dawned on me that you didn't realize that the little girl we saw once a year was Sasha. It never hit me that you didn't recognize the little girl you played with, she looked exactly the same. I guess you weren't use to Sasha being a big girl who walked and talked and played.
I remember the little boy who called Rowan, Sasha, and made my heart stopped, then I looked at the laughter in your eyes and the grin on your face. You had gotten me good with that joke. Unlike Uncle LC, you could see that Rowan wasn't a plumper, darker Sasha.
I love the little boy who didn’t bat an eye when Layla came home, though you did smile when you asked, “Sasha?”
I remember the boy who cried the Tuesday after Labor Day, your very first day of school, until Thanksgiving. Every day I dropped you off you cried. If you had had a weaker mother, I probably would have caved, but unfortunately for you there are bits of Oma in me and they pop up at will. Plus Mrs. Wilson would tell me that by the time I closed the gate, you had stopped crying. You little con artist.
I love the little boy who hugs me when he thinks I might be crying and tells me, “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay.” I love the boy who says, “I love you,” randomly and without warning. The little boy who tries to act nonchalantly when I’m showering him with praise over something awesome he’s done or learned.
I love the boy who loves cruises and thinks the Space Needle is the neatest thing ever. (Who knew that place made such an impression on you?) I love the boy who remembers that a van picked us up to take us to the ship when we were going to Hawaii. I love the little boy who told his sisters that when they got on the cruise they could sit in the Jacuzzi. I love that you knew cruising means sitting in the Jacuzzi for mommy and reading. I could cry I love you so much.
I love the little boy who said, “Mommy, your favorite show is on. Come here.”
I followed you into Oma’s cabin to look at her TV. I saw forest and people, but I wasn’t sure what exactly I was watching.
“Mommy, it’s Merlin.”
I get verklempt just thinking about that. That you knew that I loved Merlin, which means some of those late nights you weren’t really asleep and you were secretly watching it over my shoulder and from my side, my thoughtful, observant boy. And no the show was Harry Potter, not Merlin, but I could see how the two could be mistaken. British accents, forest scenes, magic going on, same, same.
I love the little boy who has me spending every Christmas Eve at Chuck E. Cheese celebrating his birthday.
I love the little boy who so easily puts his hand in mine and makes my heart stop. How did God see fit to bless me so much that I’m your mommy? And that for the last seven years I have had that title and will have it until the day He calls me home.
I am madly in love with the boy who has his sisters' backs and holds their hands as we cross the street or parking lots. The boy who loves to push their stroller and thinks of them when he’s buying things or getting treats.
When I was a little kid, I always pretended that my first child was a boy so he could be his sisters' protector, he could have look out for them and they could look up to him. Baby boy, thank you for turning my imaginary play fantasies into reality. Forgive me for those years when I wanted my first to be a girl. Thank you God for not answering that prayer of giving me a girl first because I might not have ever experienced this absolute joy of being a mommy to a boy. And not just any boy, but my boy, my Jory. Seven December 30ths ago on an early afternoon on, I became your mommy and you became my son. Seven of the greatest years of my life.
Jory, you are always in my heart, in my thoughts, and my prayers. I pray that you will always grow in grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I love you, Jory! Thanks for the last seven years and for all the years we have to look forward to together.
Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part, baby of mine
No comments:
Post a Comment