Little Boy,

I still remember when I saw it. The blue dust that burst out of the sealed container, and fell on our heads, and in our hair, and on our skin. My hands covered my mouth. My husband’s arms shot up in the air like he just scored a touchdown. And our daughter, Selah, who was 3, covered her eyes with her hands.

Our family cheered wildly.

We kissed and hugged. The blue smearing, spreading on our clean white shirts.

We served cheesecake, and laughed and chatted about how different boys are than girls.

But inside, my head swirled with the blue.

It’s a boy. 

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I mean, there was a time when I couldn’t get pregnant at all. So, I was thankful to even have one child.

But I had become familiar with her pink world, her fragile frame, her delicate nature. She was just like one of those porcelain ballerinas that twirl in a music box. I remember being afraid I would break her tiny legs, when I changed her tiny newborn diapers and slipped her into the tiniest footie pajamas. This little Tinkerbelle creature, but now…

The dust was blue. 

I knew everything would be different in the world of “boy,” I just didn’t know how different. I honestly thought it meant I’d be trading in the baby dolls for monster trucks, and princess dresses for LEGOS.

My son, Jesse, is almost 18 months now. (Which, in my opinion, is the most trying time to raise a child. And looking back, it’s the same age Selah was when I wrote this post, “Am I Enough?“)

And my 18-month-boy has me gasping for breath. Every day.

If it seems like I haven’t posted anything in a while, it’s because I’m busy: saving his life. 

Multiple times a day.

In the briefest moment, when I’m in the bathroom, or giving his sister a pony-tail, or changing the laundry…

He climbs the dining room chairs and stands on the table.

He climbs the kitchen stools and walks on the counter.

He presses every button, and switches every light switch, and turns the thermostat to 90 degrees.

He plays in the toilet water like it’s the best splash pad you’ve ever seen. Or tasted.

He scales the side of his changing table and looks for the petroleum jelly to stick his fingers in. And sample. (I’ve had to call Poison Control.)

And he tries to escape to the outdoors.

His world is full of grand adventures. 

Wonder. And…

Risk.

And mine is full of constant panic, and helicopter-like rescues from the tables and counters.

He does things his sister never thought to do. 

Like sitting on kitchen counter, feasting upon the fruit bowl. Biting through the manderin oranges, eating whole bites with the skin on.

Or, climbing the shelves of the pantry like a brave fireman. (Searching for the Reese’s Puffs.)

A few weeks ago, Selah had left her water glass on the end table. While I was in the bathroom (I promise it wasn’t that long), I heard a clinking noise–and thought he was just playing with his little instruments. When I came out, I saw what was making that noise…

He was banging the glass on the end table–which is made of stone tiles. He was banging it so hard, the glass was breaking. There were little glass shard’s everywhere. On the table. On the carpet.

I was horrified.

“No, no, no!” I gasped and whisked him to the kitchen sink. I quickly brushed off his hands and face with a kitchen towel. Checked his mouth. Checked him all over for cuts. And to my surprise.

He did not have one scratch on him.

I say this with tears.

He did not have one scratch on him. 

 

That night, as I rocked him to sleep, feeling his baby smooth skin in my arms. I remembered the glass. The broken shards that covered the table, and the books, and the carpet. I remembered the horror I felt, when I saw it, when I saw him.

And there in the dark, I whispered, slowly, meaning every word,

“God,

Thank you, 

for every time

You kept him safe today.” 

 

And I cried. For not being enough. For not seeing him. For not being right there.

And I thought of the angels. The angels I ask God to surround him with. Every night, and every day.

I felt him in my arms. My little boy. This gift of God. Felt his gentle breathing on my chest. And let out my own breath, slow and deep.

 

Dear little boy, 

Sometimes I wonder,

if even the angels

break a sweat

Keeping up with you.

Because, I do. 

 

Do the angels perspire, as they hold you back from fire?

Their hot, and sweaty, feathered wings,

beating hard

To dash, and fly, and swoop, 

a heavenly troop,

to keep your baby toes, and fingers

safe?

Do they bear you up in their arms,

keeping you from harm?

That I may hold you each night,

holding little fingers tight,

Your head lying on my chest, 

arms wrapped around my breast,

Such a mama’s boy, at rest.

 

Little boy, you won’t be little long. 

Soon, you’ll be a man. 

Not just exploring dining room tables, 

but distant lands. 

Seeking out God’s wild plans. 

 

From now, till then, 

my little one, 

my darling, daring blue-eyed son, 

I’ll pray for you,

and be there too,

I’ll try my best to rescue you. 

 

But when I’m not, 

When I can’t see, 

When you wander far from me…

 

The One who made you,

sees you, too,

Near and far, across oceans’ blue,

He’s the One protecting you. 

And at your whimper, at your cry,

He makes His angel armies 

fly.

 

Love,

Mom

 

[P.S. Now, please get off the counter.]