A First To Remember

As a parent, I have had the great pleasure of experiencing so many monumental “firsts.”  His first smile, his first steps, his first word, the first time he slept through the night at seven and a half months old you’ve got to be kidding me oh no I’m totally not and it was only after I FINALLY relented and let him have his first bottle of formula oh my goodness the little traitor who had been keeping me up all night for months because I thought he was just growing so quickly and so very hungry and trust me he had another bottle of formula every night after that.

“Firsts” are exciting.  They are thrilling and reassuring and pull of pride and joy and love.  But sadly, the special “firsts” start to slow down as infants turn into babies into toddlers into children into big kids who have permanent teeth growing in more directions than you can count.  Of course, the first day of school is always cause for pictures and text messages to grandparents, and I imagine there will be great amounts of emotion expended down the road when we experience his first date, the first time he drives a car, and his first college application.  Today, however, I have to tell you about a “first” I never saw coming.

Charlie started middle school this week. It was quite a roller coaster for my little fellow, as the jubilation he has felt for months about leaving lower school turned into some serious anxiety about three weeks before school was scheduled to begin.  Yes.  Three weeks of ten-year old anxiety.  That meant lots and lots of questions and comments about middle school and what was it going to be like and what if he couldn’t handle it and what if he couldn’t open his locker and what if he couldn’t find his classes and why in the world did his school make kids start middle school in fifth grade anyway?!?!

There were two days of orientation, and that helped . . . a little.  Still, on the morning of the first day of middle school, my Charlie was pacing the kitchen by 6:30 am, worried about his shoes and his socks and his first class and his last class and carpool and . . .

It was a half day, so I picked him up at noon.  There was a smile on his face as he slid into the car, and his entire demeanor was visibly different – calm, relaxed, okay.

He chattered happily about his day on the ride home.  My teachers are nice, I know a lot of people in my classes, it’s not that different from lower school.

We got home and he had homework, because middle schoolers are big time like that.  Now at Charlie’s school, one of the perks of moving up into the middle school is that the students each get their own tablet, which is basically a laptop computer on which they do almost everything.  So my son pulled out his tablet and prepared to complete his first homework assignment of the school year.  His task was to send an email to his math teacher.  And that’s when it happened.  The “first” I wasn’t expecting, but which was just as thrilling and reassuring and full of pride and joy and love as the others Charlie has provided through the years.   

I remember the first time I had to send an email.  I was a student at the University of Georgia, not long before graduation, and much like my son, I was required to email one of my professors as a homework assignment.  In order to do it, I had to drive to campus, find a parking spot, search for the computer lab I’d never set foot in before, wait for an empty computer, figure out how to get the computer to turn on because the person before me had shut it down, wait at least ten minutes for the computer to get going again, and navigate whatever email procedure I had been instructed to use to demonstrate to my professor that I could successfully send a message through time and space using the latest and greatest technology.

Charlie’s homework wasn’t quite so complicated.  And within weeks, I’d be willing to bet he won’t even recall doing it because he will have sent so many emails since then.  I, on the other hand, will remember it forever.

I will remember the way his face lit up.  I will remember the way he threw his hands in the air and squealed like the child he is.  I will remember the exhilaration in his voice when he hollered, “I DID IT!” 

The kid was absolutely giddy.  He had sent his first email.

I guess that’s 2013 for you, huh?  We just keep adding things for parents to pray about. 

Lord, please let my son use email wisely and appropriately.  Please watch over him as he navigates the world of technology, which gives him access to all the things I hope he never wants to Google.  Lord, please let my son send and receive only positive, uplifting email messages from now until the end of time.  Amen.

I can’t wait to see what Charlie thinks when I start emailing him.  I’m thinking maybe a Bible verse of the day . . .

Think his face will light up every time he opens it?

“I see children as kites.  You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground.  You run with them until you’re both breathless.  They crash . . . you add a longer tail.  They hit the rooftop . . . you pluck them out of the spout.  You patch and comfort, adjust and teach.  You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them someday they’ll fly. 

Finally, they are airborne.  But they need more string and you keep letting it out and with each twist of the ball of twine, there is a sadness that goes with the joy because the kite becomes more distant and somehow you know it won’t be long before that beautiful creature will snap the lifeline that bound you together and soar as it was meant to soar . . . free and alone. 

Only then do you know that you did your job.”
 (Author unknown)

 

Happy 10th birthday, Charlie.  I see your kite rising higher by the day.  It is both glorious and heartwrenching to watch as it moves into the distance - further away from me with every glance I take.  But it is such a beautiful kite,  and I will watch is as long as I possibly can . . . waiting, hoping, anxiously anticipating exactly where it will go, and praying  that wherever it ends up, I will be near enough to see. 

 

 

“The world is made up of two kinds of people. The ones who

think they’re normal and the ones who know there’s no such

thing.” - Will McAvoy on The Newsroom

 

Our Charlie is the best little boy ever. I love that kid so much I think I might actually die the day he leaves the nest. I honestly don't believe I can survive more than a few days without him.  He's smart and funny and adorable and determined and, mostly . . . he's comfort. Life is just right when he's sitting next to me, drawing or reading or breathing.

 Still, sometimes I feel so bad for my little guy, because he totally reminds me about that whole apple falling from the tree thing.  Yea. It doesn’t fall far folks. It doesn’t fall far at all.

Poor kid.

My mother gave Charlie a snowman to put on his nightstand on Thanksgiving Day. It’s only a few inches tall, but it has those LED lights inside, so Mr. Snowman glows all sorts of fun colors when you turn him on. Now, before I continue, I need to tell you that we left to go out of town on the day after Thanksgiving and we returned home on Sunday afternoon. If you do the math, you will realize that as of bedtime on Sunday, Charlie had slept with the light-up snowman beside his bed for exactly ONE night.  And yet, just after he crawled into his bed to go to sleep for only the second night with his new snowman friend glowing cheerfully beside him, my poor little apple son had this to say:

“I love this snowman. It turns red, green, purple, yellow, blue and pink. That's the order every time. And it stays red, green, purple, yellow, and blue for four seconds each. Then the pink stays on for eleven seconds. And then it starts over with red again.”

I should probably also mention that right before Charlie quoted the above statistics, he patted the “special place” on his pillowcase two times.  He does that every night, right before he puts his head on it. 

Like I said . . . poor kid.

One day, I’ll have to explain to Charlie that apples don’t far fall from their trees.  And then, I’ll have to tell him what OCD is.:)  For now, however, I’m going to lie next to him in bed and watch the snowman change colors. 

Oh Charlie, tomorrow you will turn nine. How can that be? I’m not old enough to have a nine-year-old child, am I? Did I miss something? You mean my twenties are already gone? But . . . where did they go? My thirties are half over? GASP.

Okay. It’s fine. I’m breathing again. I feel the air moving in and out of my lungs and that has to mean I’m breathing. I feel the kitchen chair beneath me. I hear the dishwasher making its wet assault behind me. I smell the puppy at my feet. I see your lacrosse cleats on the floor and your picture on the counter and I recall the warmth of your forehead against mine as we snuggled in your bed an hour ago and . . . I know it’s true. It really is just as I thought. Tomorrow, you will turn nine. Oh Charlie. How can that be?

I cannot recall a moment in my life when I didn’t want to be your mother. I remember every detail of the moment I discovered I was pregnant with you. I can picture the room I was in, the clothes I was wearing, the things surrounding me. It was the first time I ever fell to my knees to thank God. Tears streamed down my face. Tears of joy and anticipation and gratitude and an immediate love I didn’t even know was possible.

I had plans to meet your dad for dinner, so I pulled myself together and headed out the door with a newfound fear of being behind the wheel of an automobile. I was carrying a baby and suddenly, every act of living took on new meaning. I made a quick stop on my way to the restaurant for my first purchase as a pregnant woman. I bought a blue and white bib that said, “I love my Daddy,” all the while formulating plans in my mind about how to tell my husband we were going to be parents.

I made it through our dinner together without a word about my discovery – I couldn’t share such special news in a crowded restaurant. My hands shook and my stomach fluttered with nervous energy the entire meal, and every bite I took had a purpose never before understood. I was no longer eating salmon and spinach because I enjoyed it. I was eating it to nourish the child within.

Once home, I asked your daddy to sit outside with me on our back patio. I watched his expression transform from confusion to curiosity as I handed him the baby bib. When his eyes met mine, I answered his silent question with a simple nod.

Yes, our prayers have been answered. Yes, our dreams are coming true. Yes, we are going to have a baby.

Statistics claim 75% of women experience nausea during pregnancy. Leave it to me to stick with the majority. My first trimester involved a great deal of time spent on the couch, in a horizontal position, in my robe. It also involved some highly questionable food choices. Some days, all I could eat were Pringles. Other days, I could stomach only watermelon. There were days of chicken broth, vegetable soup, tomatoes, tater tots, saltines, and plain pasta. My doctor claimed my all day morning sickness would go away in my second trimester. It didn’t. He told me to continue eating whatever I could handle and not worry too much. I worried anyway.

When I wasn’t eating or worrying, I was reading. And by reading I actually mean I was devouring any and all information I could possibly find on pregnancy. I knew exactly when your fingernails began to grow in my womb. I knew how much weight you were supposed to be gaining each week of every month of all three trimesters. I also knew very early on that you were a boy. I didn’t tell a soul, but I was positive our first-born was going to be a son.

On the morning of our twenty-week ultrasound, I wore a blue shirt in honor of the baby boy I believed was growing inside of me. I lied on my back, gripping your daddy’s hand, wondering why no one had told me how much concern you can have for someone you’ve never even met. And when that nurse (her name was Mary) turned the computer screen towards me and I saw your precious profile in a grainy black and white image forever etched in my mind, I fell madly in love with everything about you. Instantly, I memorized the upturn of your nose and the fullness of your lips and the curve of your forehead. You were always my baby, but at that moment, you became my heart. You became my son. You became our Charlie.

We decorated your room, painting the walls just the right shade of blue. Your father spent hours refinishing a piece of furniture to use as your changing table. We attended childbirth classes and baby showers. I washed tiny pieces of clothing and hung them according to size in your closet. We put together all sorts of strange looking, brightly colored equipment guaranteed to carry, bounce, swing and soothe. We picked out birth announcements and visited pediatricians and scoured consumer reports for the safest car seats on the market. Your daddy put your crib together . . . twice. On his first attempt, he assembled it outside your room. Turns out cribs don’t fit through doors.

And then, on a cold night in the middle of February, my water broke and the pain came and we rushed to the hospital and the doctor said it was time and at the perfect moment . . . at the exact moment God planned for you to entire our lives . . . you arrived.

Oh Charlie. You came crashing into our world with the softest of cries and the chubbiest of arms and the sweetest, most mesmerizing face on the entire planet. And our existence instantly became an incredible journey we could never have imagined. The journey that takes a human heart and links it to another in a way that is so complete, so certain and true, it can only be described as a forever purpose of love.

It has been an amazing journey; one filled with all the things we expected; laughter, anticipation, learning, surprise, hope, joy, pride, fear, concern, disappointment, sorrow, prayer. But most of all, it has been a forever purpose of love. Loving our child with everything we have and with all that we are. Loving him in every moment, in every circumstance, in the very best ways we know how.

Oh Charlie. I love you so much. I will love you forever. I will love you no matter what. And I’m glad you’re turning nine tomorrow. Because that means I have had three-thousand two-hundred and eighty-five days with the most wonderful boy I’ve ever known.

I pray for thousands more.