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Today’s blog is brought to you by guest writer “hubby of mopsy.”
Enjoy…
A desperate howling rushed through the house. The roof rattled. Windows shook. Determined to rain its wreckage on the shaky foundation below, the mad storm willed one last gasping scream—then fell to silence.
I unclenched my fists, and unset my jaw. I used a quick sip of coke to wash away the toothy powder gained from an hour’s tense grinding, and tried to relax. My ears were still ringing, but I forced myself to listen for any creaking—any sign the storm would come again. All I could hear was the pounding wind outside.
“Please Lord,†I said silently. “Please give him peace. Grant him sleep.†I was afraid even my silent prayer would wake him despite the wind. But I continued, “Help him get through this.â€
Joel lay asleep.
Yesterday was Joel’s first birthday. He’ll see a new year of firsts. First steps, first sentences, first friends. New experiences will bring frustration and triumph to his little heart. Last night was one of frustration. It was his first away from “Mamaâ€â€”her warm bed and suckling comfort.
Gretchen was laying in comfort at the Brown Palace Hotel. (She’s at a woman’s retreat sponsored by our church) But I knew she wouldn’t be resting. She’d be worried about her sweet baby Joel. As I thought of her, I crept into the bedroom. Joel was wrapped into a still little ball. I put a blanket on him and slipped quietly back downstairs.
It’s not easy helping these little ones grow up. Joel is our fifth child—the third I’ve tried to train to sleep through the night. (I’m 3 for 4). I’ll miss holding him each night as I sit in front of the TV. I’m sick of the TV, but I love rocking him. He brings me as much peace as I try to give him each night. I’m glad for the time with him. I love his sleepy smiles, and those dream laughs. I often try to imagine what unconscious theatrics are playing in his mind to make him so happy.
In another year he’ll be a springy, squirmy toddler—too restless to sit in my lap for the night. I’ll get to hold him during story time, but soon he’ll be too big for even that. He’ll have dates and nights out with friends, and a family of his own; and I’ll be the one defiantly set to bed. I’ll be the one worrying he’s not coming back. I’ll be screaming inside for my little baby boy, and I’ll say a prayer.
“Please Lord,†I’ll say silently. “Please give me peace. Grant me sleep.†I’ll be afraid my silent prayer will reach my grown son despite the distance, and the howling wind. But I’ll continue, “Help me get through this.â€
And I’ll finally sleep, knowing he’s in the Lord’s hands because I was willing to let my baby boy become a man.
One year ago, at this very moment, I was not yet a mom of five. But very, very close. I was probably attempting to sleep. The lights in the room were low. The stereo was tuned to the classical music station. And Joel was nearing the gush of life into his newly unfurled lungs with every heartbeat on the monitor. I see now how close I was to seeing my new son. At the time, I thought it was endless.
My baby is one today. And here I am, not making a very good attempt to sleep because I know that I would simply churn the sheets around, crazed insomniac that I am. I cannot sleep because I have just finished an unbelievable year. A trip around the sun at 67,072 miles per hour to be exact. How fast we fly around the sun and how fast we fly through life. It has been that way with Joel this year.
What can I say about baby Joel? He is our fifth child. He is a gift from God. He can give real kisses. His eyes are brilliantly blue, his teeth are an odd arrangement of four on top, three on the bottom. He needs a haircut, his second! His universal word for food is “nana”. He loves his big sister and big brothers and glows when they are around him. He can already climb on chairs. When I hold him, he feels like he was fashioned to be in my arms, like puzzle pieces that click softly together. Or maybe my arms were built to cradle him? Either way, we were made for each other.
This poem makes me smile. The poet knows that each baby that comes into a family is a blessing, whether it is the first baby or the fifth. If anything, the fifth child is the most blessed–he has the love of not only mommy and daddy, but the older siblings too. He also has the benefit of a mommy that knows “babies don’t keep…”
Song for a Fifth Child
Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
hang out the washing and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
but I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look, aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.
By Ruth Hurlburt Hamilton
Joel, my fifth child, my beautiful baby…Happy Birthday!
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze Ryley at 5 1/2 years old forever. His outlook on life is usually sunny. His innocence is as deep as the universe is wide. He is not yet self-conscious of himself, taking everything literally. He is sweetly sincere.
Earlier this evening, Aidan, Ryley, and I had dinner with my parents and my brother and sister-in-law. We went to the Black-eyed Pea. Ryley was very excited and kept pointing out to everyone what good manners he possessed–“look at my napkin hanging from my shirt!”–as he tucked a white paper napkin into his t-shirt. To Ryley, he would fit right in with Prince Charles and Martha Stuart and have “tea for three” at Buckingham Palace on Christmas Eve at 4pm. Ryley sat up straight in his chair, arranged his silverware nicely, and enjoyed the cherry that came with his Sprite without complaining that it was “too spicy”, like Aidan (yes, she thought the cherry in her lemonade was “spicy”).
I read the back of the kids menu to him. He was disappointed that there was no pizza, but he settled on the worthy grilled cheese sandwich. I told him he could choose a side. He passed on the broccoli and rice, and went for the french fries.
Then I read to him the part of the menu that covered desserts. It basically said “if you clean your plate, you may choose from a sundae or bread pudding!”
The rolls and corn muffins arrived. We divided them up on each of our bread plates. Throughout it all, I noticed Ryley rubbing his napkin on his bread plate and scraping it with his fingernail. He held it up in the light and examined it closely. Finally, he declared “it’s clean!” I thought it was cute, but nothing more.
Dinner arrived. Ryley sliced his grilled cheese sandwich with his knife and fork, still ever-mindful of his manners. He announced he was full and would not be finishing his french fries, which was all right with me. He returned to the task of buffing his bread plate and asking for opinions. He was so diligent and serious about making it shine.
“Mom, is this clean?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s pretty clean!”
“The waitress will be so proud!”
“Uh…yeah…”
And then it occurred to me: the children’s menu with the phrase “if you clean your plate…” Ryley literally thought that meant he was expected to clean his plate at the table.
My stomach still hurts from laughing. I can only imagine what his thoughts were on the matter: I guess at this place, you have to stick your napkin in your shirt and clean your own plates…weird, but I will do it if ice cream is involved!
So tonight, at Black-eyed Pea, the dishwasher had once less plate to scrub as hard as the others. I bet he wishes for a restaurant full of earnestly innocent five-year-old boys, squinting at specks on bread plates, buffing them to a high-gloss for a simple bowl of vanilla ice cream with spicy cherries on top.
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