As I Stare at my Beautiful Child

 I lay down next to my baby to nurse him asleep. It has been a busy day full of friends, a short road trip to drop off our taxes, and of missed naps. Tristan is tired. He is about a week shy of being 5 months old and just today I discovered his first tooth cut through the gum.

I lay down in the dimly lit bedroom on our king-size bed to nurse my tired boy to sleep. I casually flip through a magazine but decide the light is too dim to bother with reading. Instead I stare at my son. He is hungry and tired and nurses with gusto. His soft plump hands grasp mine, twisting and wringing. I love how he does this, especially when he is tired. Occasionally he rubs his tired eyes. My thoughts turn towards my love for this child. I love him so much. I wish I could get a picture of him from the exact perspective I see him, as if a camera was attached to my eyes. I wonder if I'll remember these moments when he is 2, 5, 10, 15, or 30 years old. Will I ever be able to draw forth this image in my mind's eye of him as he is now, this sweet, plump, 4 month old baby? Or will these days just feel like a dream that has taken on that vague, cloudy sense most of my dreams have- that feeling of the images and ideas just beyond my reach?

I think about my sadness and weekly grief that I feel at the thought that this small child might be my last. Will I honestly never go through pregnancy again? Will I never give birth again? Will I never lay in this bed again and feed another almost-5-month-old? Will I truely never get the chance to be excited and amazed at that first tooth that suddenly appears in the little mouth after days and weeks of constant drool, biting, and fussiness? I grieve deep within my heart that this baby truely might be my last one. Then I think, maybe, just maybe, the Lord will sneak another one in for me. Maybe my husband will change his mind. Maybe we will have an "surprise!" baby. After all, both myself and Brian were "accidents," unplanned from our parent's points of view (but surely not from God's view.)

I grieve a silent sadness. But then I look upon my child even more intently. I think this is a picture only I am privileged to see. Only I see this particular view of Tristan. Isn't it amazing how one person can have so many "looks"? Laying on this bed, I see a trim little Tristan. I can actually "see" myself in him which is saying something because I typically have a hard time seeing my looks in my children. I look at this child and tell myself, "soak this in. Don't be so sad about what may or may not be, that you miss the here and now. Be present right here, right this second. Enjoy this moment. It is so fleeting." 

By now Tristan's enthusiastic gulping has long subsided. His wringing hands slow down and he now softly holds my hand. He starts to pull at the breast and pops on and off. He is ready for a pacifier. This is new for me. At 4 months he just now started using a pacifier. He never handled my over abundance of milk as well as Garrett did. He wants to comfort suck but can't deal with the milk that keeps coming. Garrett, my oldest, never had an issue dealing with the milk and loved to "sleep nurse" at the breast. This pacifier thing feels a bit freeing at times but mostly odd and unnatural because my mothering expectation  is that I am my child's source of comfort and nourishment emotionally and physically. I have no problems being a "human pacifier." But I put the pacifier in his mouth and he "sleep nurses" on it with gusto. As he does, I think about my love for him and Garrett, how quickly these children grow up, how challenging yet rewarding mothering is, and I think "Thank you God for this little boy. Thank you for giving him to me." I think about how I should try to cherish all the moments and laugh more, have fun with my children more. I think of how cute Tristan is when he laughs and giggles. How his happiness overcomes his whole body and how easy and quickly he laughs now at the slightest thing Garrett does. I can't wait until tomorrow when I can see his laughter again and get a big, cuddly hug from him. But I also think about how happy I am that he is asleep and how shortly I will be the only one awake in the house and I can take a deep breath and relax a bit.

Tristan's suck slows down each minute. The pacifier finally drops completely out of his mouth. He shifts and gets comfortable. I start to slide out from the bed, but first I move the discarded magazine away from him with the mental picture of Tristan somehow reaching over in his sleep and pulled the magazine over his face and suffocated. I laugh at my mom-anxiety but none the less, move the magazine.

I think about motherhood. I have so many thoughts on the subject. I think about how there is no shortage of  opportunity to learn and grow as an individual through "just" being a mom. I think about how amazing God's plan is to put us in families which allow us to be "refined by the fire." I think about how much I love being a mom. About how much happiness that comes with it. But also the trails, frustrations, and the feelings of constantly coming up short. I think about how I am my own worse critic, my own harshest judge, and how I want to do and be better as a mom. I decide its best to embrace all of these thoughts and feelings as motherhood. My grief, my happiness, my tender feelings, as well as myself critic, my tiredness, my impatience and frustration. Motherhood, for me, is all of these things.

About 30 minutes later I hear Tristan start to cry. I lay next to him again and offer the breast once more. He guzzles quickly in his mostly asleep trance once again and then falls back into a deep sleep. Its been a busy day and I think he didn't nurse as much as he should of today. I expect a lot of night nursing tonight. I leave the room once again thinking that tonight, since Brian is not home, I'll let Garrett sleep in the big bed and in the morning we three will cuddle extra long before starting the new day.