C, today you are seven. I remember hearing your scream as I lay on the hospital bed all those years ago, and I knew you were different. Your brother entered the world in serenity but you busted on the scene with a vengeance. You were bald--but then, no. Not really bald. When I examined you, I noticed you had a head of the finest white-blond fuzz (where did that come from?) long limbs, and a wizened old man face.
Fast forward to toddlerhood. You baby-cussed, had strong opinions about food, hated surprises, and potty-trained in a minute-and-a-half. You learned to read a year after potty-training, and now I have to say things like, "No, you can't read Jack London right now. It's too dark for a six-year-old."
You've asked me hard questions, made me cry, caused me to fall on my knees before the Lord and ask, 'What should I do now?' and 'How can I protect this one? I don't want anyone to destroy him--least of all me.' I've found myself having adult conversations with you one minute and consoling you over a scraped knee the next.
I love all of my children with blinding singularity. Each one of you is a piece of me. But I understand you the easiest. Maybe because you're really the most like me. Maybe that's also why you make me so mad I have to leave your presence sometimes.
God knew what he was doing when he gave me you, C. He knew, and I'm so grateful, baby. Happy Birthday.
Love,
Momma
I understand you the easiest, too, Cay Cay. I love you so much. I think about you all the time. If you were here, we'd make peanut butter balls, and I'd make everyone else stay out of the kitchen.
ReplyDeleteI still remember that picture we had made of him in the candy cane outfit with the hat into an ornament for the tree. Do you remember it. Cutest little thing ever.
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