Ben and Liam
Every day, when I take Max to daycare, he cries.
I know he loves our daycare provider. I know he loves her son, who's a few months older than him. I know he loves her two older sons too, who teach him to play basketball and read to him. He loves daycare, and Angie has told me a dozen times that he stops crying two minutes after I walk out the door.
The only thing that makes it possible for me to leave my son crying and reaching for me every morning is the fact that I know that every night, I can come home and hold him for as long as he'll let me. I can tickle his armpits and laugh at his open-mouthed full-on bellow of a belly laugh. I can share my dinner with him. I can splash in the tub with him.
He's mine.
He's real.
He's okay.
I can protect him from most of the world, for now. I can scare away all the monsters and barking dogs and bad men. I am Mama.
Ben and Liam's mother Kate is struggling with her inability to protect her sweet boys from the world. Born Saturday, May 5, at 28 weeks gestation, they are hospitalized in the NICU and will remain there for some time.
I am reminded to be grateful for the ordinariness of my son. The everydayness of our life together.
I am reminded of his birth and how frustrated I was when the nurses came and told me that he was hypoglycemic; would I prefer that they feed him by bottle or give him an I.V.? I don't care! I don't care how you do it, just do it! Fix it.
Some fixes are easy. Ben and Liam will have a much harder uphill run than little Max did.
Ben and Liam: welcome, little men. Be strong and well.
Kate and Justin: You and your precious boys are at the center of the thoughts of people everywhere. Those of us who pray are praying. Those of us who hope are hoping that hope is enough.
Max: I love you, Bubba. Thank you for all of the kisses and sweetness and lessons. Mama will be home soon, and we can read a cookbook together on the couch. You can pick the cookbook.
I know he loves our daycare provider. I know he loves her son, who's a few months older than him. I know he loves her two older sons too, who teach him to play basketball and read to him. He loves daycare, and Angie has told me a dozen times that he stops crying two minutes after I walk out the door.
The only thing that makes it possible for me to leave my son crying and reaching for me every morning is the fact that I know that every night, I can come home and hold him for as long as he'll let me. I can tickle his armpits and laugh at his open-mouthed full-on bellow of a belly laugh. I can share my dinner with him. I can splash in the tub with him.
He's mine.
He's real.
He's okay.
I can protect him from most of the world, for now. I can scare away all the monsters and barking dogs and bad men. I am Mama.
Ben and Liam's mother Kate is struggling with her inability to protect her sweet boys from the world. Born Saturday, May 5, at 28 weeks gestation, they are hospitalized in the NICU and will remain there for some time.
I am reminded to be grateful for the ordinariness of my son. The everydayness of our life together.
I am reminded of his birth and how frustrated I was when the nurses came and told me that he was hypoglycemic; would I prefer that they feed him by bottle or give him an I.V.? I don't care! I don't care how you do it, just do it! Fix it.
Some fixes are easy. Ben and Liam will have a much harder uphill run than little Max did.
Ben and Liam: welcome, little men. Be strong and well.
Kate and Justin: You and your precious boys are at the center of the thoughts of people everywhere. Those of us who pray are praying. Those of us who hope are hoping that hope is enough.
Max: I love you, Bubba. Thank you for all of the kisses and sweetness and lessons. Mama will be home soon, and we can read a cookbook together on the couch. You can pick the cookbook.
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