No matter how cliche it may be, that is the only way I know to describe the way I felt when my firstborn, my very own baby son, was placed in my arms. At that moment, my life was dramatically changed forever, never to be the same again.
I didn’t know at that moment what havoc my speedy labor and delivery had wrought on my body, that later that day I would be wheeled into surgery for repairs, and that I would suffer for weeks from an incompetent doctor. The details are too gruesome to repeat, and I don’t want to focus on that.
What I remember most are the hours I spent holding and cuddling my new baby boy, falling in love over and over again. Because of the complications I experienced, I spent the first five weeks of his life on the couch or in bed. Which sounds miserable. But it truly was not. Because I got to hold my baby all. day. long. Which was the only thing in the world I wanted to do. We bonded. And fell deeper in love every day. By the time I was back on my feet, he was ready to meet the world.
What can I say about this child?
He is a delight, eager to please, affectionate, loving, and sensitive. He was a complacent, happy baby. He would entertain himself for hours on end, even from infanthood. He still plays well by himself today. He wasn’t in a hurry to do anything. He had the most adorable little “army crawl” where he would pull himself around with his arms and drag his body. He hit most of his milestones on the later side, not walking until he was 18 months old.
From a very early age, he was inquisitive and persistent, always interested in how things work. He loves sports, particularly baseball. He will spend hours outside throwing a ball at the house and catching it. He knows more stats than the average adult baseball fan. At five years old, he was sitting through an entire major league baseball game with his dad and following every play.
He is the kid the other parents want their kids to play with and the one babysitters delight to watch. He’s the firstborn, the responsible one, the one who helps me out when I need a chore done or a sibling occupied. He’s the one that has had to grow up the quickest, the one we expect the most out of, the one that is the most likely to wind up in counseling as Hubby and I experiment on him and try to figure out this complex, wonderful thing called parenting.
He’s seven years old, and I can hardly believe it. My heart aches to think of all the delightful stages that are now in the past, never to be seen again. Yet I eagerly anticipate the years to come with all the stages, good and bad, yet to be. And I pray for God’s grace as we strive to raise a kind, compassionate, godly young man.