Right now you are stretched out at my feet, your rounded stomach rising and falling with each silent breath, your arms occasionally flailing purposelessly for a second until you bring your tiny perfect fist into your mouth and suck wetly until you fall back asleep. Your face is serene, your limbs splayed, your lips still suckling the air. You are perfect.
I remember wondering those 42 and a half weeks what you would be like, what it would be like to carry you in my arms instead of on my pelvis. I worried that I wouldn't know how to keep you safe and healthy, how to teach you all of the millions of things you will need to know to navigate this world we are living in. I worried that you might not understand how very much you are wanted, that we would make so many mistakes trying to figure out how to take care of a brand new person that you would grow to resent us. I worried that you would hate your name or that it wouldn't fit you somehow. I worried that you were unhappy inside the cocoon my body had built for you. It seemed I was always worrying, but I also learned to love you. Every time you kicked my rib cage, or rolled over onto my bladder, or pressed your tiny forming hands and feet up against my abdomen I was surprised anew--this is my baby--the one that will belong to me and his father and our Father. The responsibility was exhilarating and terrifying and strange.
I remember the first time I held you. We were both exhausted by the immense work of labor, trying to separate two people who had been tied together for months. Your weight on my chest, your fists angrily striking the air with indignant wails at the harsh treatment of birth. You were so much more substantial than I had expected, not the fluttering bubbly movements I had been noticing for so many weeks in a row but arms and feet and a nose and fingers--a solid moving being vociferously squawking your displeasure. I remember how you calmed down eventually and just looked at me. I don't even know if your milky newborn eyes could even see yet but I could feel your soul acknowledging mine, a reacquaintenship somehow bigger than both of us. You held my finger in your hand and formed an unbreakable link--I was instantly yours forever.
The first few weeks were no joke. I wondered if I would ever feel human again. In my zombie-esque state of constant half-sleep I watched in amazement as you slept, ate, fussed, kicked, and looked at me. I was amazed at every tiny movement, constantly reminded of your you-ness--that you were a person wholly your own. Eventually we fell into a rhythm and the purple circles under both our eyes began to fade. We learned together how to be a family. Dad, mom, and you. You were patient with us as we fumbled our way through diaper changes, night feedings, tummy time, and handling techniques but you had no tolerance for bath time. Your screaming wails left me confused--your distress, though both unnecessary and caused by me--left me hollow and anxious.
Today you are 3 months old; still tiny and helpless but also blossoming into unique you-ness. Your dad and I are still floundering our way through this fledgling parenthood lifestyle, but already we love you without reason or restraint. We live for your smiles, are captivated by your coos, and become unnerved yet again every time you wail in protest. You have a new laugh--a sea-lion style belly grunt always accompanied with your wet gummy grin. You now seem to enjoy bath-time and are surprised every time you splash in the water. You are a morning person and wake up kicking and cooing, smiling and sublime. You are teaching us the science of yourself and we are eager (if sometimes slow) pupils.
Still I worry sometimes. Being a parent is both more wondrous and more terrifying than I expected it to be, though somehow I knew to expect that it would be. Will we be able to teach you of God's immense love for you? Convince you of ours? Will we keep you healthy and strong and safe? Will we ostracize you with too many restriction or spoil you with too few? Will we be able to provide the educational, emotional, spiritual, physical, financial, mental, social support you will need to flourish? Still, my worrying is tempered by your sweet smile and trusting gaze that seem to assure me that no matter how many mistakes we make, you know we are trying our best and you are willing to try with us.
Your slumbering self is beginning to snuffle awake, so I will close with this truth: I love you, Pacman. I cannot believe you are here, that God has trusted us with you for a few precious years. Your tiny form has somehow filled our lives and we love it. Welcome home.
