It's the second anniversary of the opening of the new Ronald McDonald House. I didn't even realize it until I was home for the day, but I felt especially tender at the memories popping up driving home from Tristan's speech therapy (a block away) today. I remember Jason in shock, near tears as we entered a place where "they feed the daddies too!" I remember running into my favorite French teacher from high school, volunteering in the kitchen by making cookies. Trying to rotate laundry without missing time with Tristan. Pumping so many hours in that chair in the middle of the night. Staying there alone for a week while Jason recovered from the nasty cold our big kids brought home. Feeling so much shock and hope when our wonderful social worker told me it was possible due to the distance from Nampa to Boise, I could stay in walking distance of my baby until he could go home with me. That strange feeling, coming home after being gone for over a month. So much gratitude.
I know I feel so raw today after seeing a friend's post yesterday about losing her baby girl. Like Tristan, her daughter had all the odds in her favor. Unlike Tristan, for whatever reasons she did not survive. I cried last night, asking Jason if he believed Tristan would have survived with any other doctor. I do not. Not because there aren't so many gifted doctors out there, but because I truly believe mine is guided by God. The way he watched every contraction, waiting for the indication to stay and try once more, or cut him out as quickly as possible. I can't fathom what it feels like to be that close to heaven.
I work so hard to never forget, and yet I know that often I do. I know that I am blessed more than I will ever comprehend, that this beautiful little boy is here, healthy, flourishing in ways no one ever believed possible after everything he suffered those first few days. I try so hard to never get frustrated with trying to shut me in the pantry, or complaining about wanting to be close to me so often, or wanting to be silly so far into the middle of the night I can't even see straight. Opening drawers and tossing their contents, leaving books and toys and random junk all over the family room, trying to take off out the garage when someone leaves the door open half a second too long, it's all so wonderfully miraculous.
Tristan's physical therapist saw him for the first time in months last week. She was, naturally, in awe of how incredibly far he's come in just a matter of weeks. We talked about how significant the difference is, between parents who naturally expect and feel frustrated by these milestones, and the people who, alongside their children, have worked and cried and fought and fallen and are just....stunned to see these miracles unfold. Unroll every box of wax paper in this house. Please, just keep growing. Make all the messes in the world.
I asked Jason if it's hard for him to spend time with people who don't understand, watching Tristan do amazing things we feared he never would, knowing that they're...unaware. It can feel funky for me. I want to shout and scream and point and jump up and down and beg them to be as amazed as I am, because it's (almost) everything I have ever wanted. I could stare forever, truly, just watching him. And of course, it's okay that every person on Earth doesn't feel the same way. I swear people probably think I'm a lousy mother letting my son take off across the children's pavilion before his appointments but I'm just in awe. Go baby. However far you can go, do it. Mommy's got you.
We feared my son would be functionally blind. He can be in another room, and recognize a cell phone or a remote control. He will take off after it. How crazy is that??? He can get across the house by himself. He can play the piano with no help, pulling himself to standing with the bench and playing as long as he wants. He can jabber and speak and sign and make his wishes vehemently known. He loves to laugh. He recognizes his favorite people even in a picture on a wall. He was thrilled to recognize "Duck Tales" on DVD shelves which have been in storage since before he was born, and Cookie Monster on his new jammies.
It's okay for me to grieve the future I thought my son would have, and the many questions I still have. It's okay to be exhausted sometimes, to wish life were easier. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful. It doesn't mean I'm not happy. But for today I choose to just....revel in the beauty that is the roller coaster of my life. I am so blessed. We are so very, very blessed.
0 comments:
Post a Comment