Happy Birthday!

Today marks the 3 year anniversary of my motherhood J I was forever changed that day, in ways I expected and ways I couldn’t even imagine. My son, my little prince Andrew, has opened my eyes to the reality of the world that I’ve always lived in, but never really saw. Through him, I view my own mother differently, as well as the young women I pass on the street, thinking one of them could be my future daughter-in-law. My mother was made human through him. Her struggles as a working woman, wife, daughter, sister, individual and mother, were now transparent to me. As a result of loving him, I love her more fiercely. She is truly superwoman and I am barely touching the hem of her cape, a mere three years into this.

Enough motherly musings and back to my son. His first name means, “strong, brave, manly”. Chosen in part as dedication to the most important man in my childhood—my dad, his name is extremely special to our family. He personifies these qualities every time he tries to pick up his younger brother (who only weighs 6 pounds less than him), when he runs onto the sidewalk after a ball, not looking for cars or rocks he could slip on and of course when he pulls out my chair at mealtimes.

 His middle name, Noah, means “peaceful, comforter”. Pains me to say this, but ever since the day he was born, he has not had any connection to that name! He was colicky and had acid reflux as an infant and to this day, he has tantrums that are loud and overly dramatic. Peaceful would definitely NOT be the first (or second or third) word I would use to describe him.

 However, also since the day he was born, I have had comfort.  From the time I held him, 7 hours after his birth (yes a whole 7 hours due to a medical emergency I had), I knew God had a plan for both of us. He wasn’t a planned addition to my life at that particular point in time, but seeing him made me realize God’s plan for my life— well, a small part of the plan. I had family that wanted to be parents, but never had that work out for them. I had friends that had lost babies either in utero or after painful, emotional deliveries. And as I looked at my tiny (5.9 pounds) baby boy, with his straight black hair and eerie, non-genetic green-blue eyes, I knew I had been blessed because my baby had survived. Forgetting the 17 hours of active labor, 3 hours of pushing and eventual surgery needed to actually get him here, I felt like my life was going into another dimension, one that I was totally unprepared for, yet excited to undertake. I was a mother. I was chosen by God to be a steward of another fragile, important life. That must make me special and worthy in my heavenly Father’s eyes.

Fast forward 3 years. My son is a replica of his father on the outside, but undeniably me on the inside, personality wise (God has a funny sense of humor). He is super inquisitive, observant, clever, perceptive, bossy, and as mentioned earlier, overly dramatic. He loves to make people laugh and tells the best stories this side of preschool. During particularly rough moments, I cling to his slightly gap toothed smile to help me to remember my life’s purpose. I am the bearer of life, but God is the sustainer of life. My purpose is to ensure that my sons and all those in contact with me know that fact. I eagerly accept the challenge and thank God daily (and especially today) for the miracle of birth and the privilege of life.