To Henry, on your first Thanksgiving.

Henry, today is Thanksgiving and this is your very first one! Mostly today is about chowing down with your friends and loved ones.  On Thanksgiving people get together for a meal that consists of turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, pie, and pretty much any other dish you can imagine.

Aside from the food, this is supposed to be a day of reflection.  Thanksgiving is when we’re expected to think about our lives and to be grateful for what we have – to give thanks.  Your mother has been posting on this blog all month about what she’s thankful for.  Your mother is much, much, much better at keeping up with the blog than I am.  She’s better at pretty much everything else too, but that is a topic for another day.  Today I’m writing to say – I’m so very thankful for you son.

My mother (Oma to you) often tells me she’s proud of me.  Before I was your dad, I thought she meant that she was proud that I had not become a troublemaker and had instead decided to go to school, to get a job, to get married, and so on.  I thought she was proud because of what I had done and because of what I had not done.  Now that I’m your parent I have a better understanding of what she means.

I will try to explain but I know it might not make any sense…  I see you now as a 10 month old baby.  You have accomplished pretty much nothing.  If you had to write a resume right now it would be seriously thin and I’m sure you’d need help with the cover letter.  But, to me you are so much more than that and I’m so proud of you.

I was there with your mother when we thought we couldn’t even have a baby.  I was there with her during our appointments at the fertility clinic and I was there when we tried to figure out how in the world we were going to pay for the treatments they thought we might need.  I was there when, despite all odds, you were set in motion the old fashioned way.  I was there the morning your mother found out she was pregnant with you.  I was there when your mother and I heard your heartbeat for the first time (we called you a washing machine back then because, well, you sounded exactly like a washing machine).  I was there the night your mother and I were sure she had miscarried and we sat up together most of the night crying, holding each other, and wondering if we would ever have a baby.  I was there when the doctor told us you were fine – still growing and washing clothes just like you were before.  I was there listening to your mother barfing because of morning sickness that somehow lasted all day long and ALL THREE TRIMESTERS.  I was with your mother during all our many visits to Buy Buy Baby when we bought bought the baby things we thought we needed.  I was there when your mother told me she might be having contractions.  I was the one who drove your mother to the hospital.  I was there when she paced around the delivery room at maximum waddle praying that they wouldn’t send us home.  I was there when you were born.

Now, this is the part when I’m supposed to say that I was overwhelmed with love for you right away.  Pretty much everyone says that the moment your baby is born it’s – BOOM- love like you’ve never felt. It isn’t that I did not love you (of course I did) but love is not the feeling I remember most.  Maybe your mother felt that overwhelming love (hormones) but I did not.  What I felt was not love so much as it was extreme terror.  I was immediately struck with your undeniable realness.  You were a human and, for the very first time, you were outside your mother and exposed to the elements.  People were looking at you, prodding you, poking you, taking your blood.  You were crying- no, you were screaming!

Then we found out your left leg, ankle, and foot, were atypical.  We knew that no matter what the diagnosis ultimately was you were going to have a more difficult path in life than some others.  I don’t remember everything I thought and felt at that moment.  I do remember praying and begging through my tears that I just wanted you to be able to walk.  Please, if nothing else, please God just let my son be able to walk.  Now, thinking back on it, I know that there are  lots of things in the world worse than not being able to walk.  In that moment though I was willing to bargain with whoever, whatever, for you to be able to walk.

Anyway, I did not have the overwhelming feeling of love that first instant.  I didn’t love you any less because of your leg but the other emotions at play were all much stronger in me than love.  I was concerned for your mother, I was concerned for myself.

I was there when we brought your home from the hospital and started trying to figure out how to take care of you.  I was there when your mother was making just tiny droplets of milk to feed you and your weight kept dropping and dropping.  I was there when we resorted to feeding you milk with a syringe because that’s the only way we could get you to eat.  I was there when your mother was feeding you basically once an hour (every hour, 24 hours a day) fighting and scraping for you to gain even a single ounce.  I was there with your mother when the pediatrician told us you were still losing weight and, despite all her extreme efforts, we needed to give you supplemental formula.  I was there in the basement alone standing next to the dryer, folding onesies and sobbing – wondering how we were supposed to survive this.  It was, and is, so incredibly hard… But!

Then, slowly, you became you – and you are the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.  It’s not what you’ve accomplished (see above, you haven’t accomplished much) it’s that you exist and that you are so wonderful just because you’re yourself.

A small example:  the other day I was holding you in the kitchen while I made breakfast.  We’re using coconut cream in our coffee nowadays because you’re supposedly allergic to milk protein and I needed to open up a can.  It’s a good idea to shake a can of coconut cream before you open it (remember this some day if you decide to make a pina colada) so I gave this one a good shake and you broke out laughing at me.  You reached out your adorable hands for the can and I decided there was no real reason you couldn’t touch it.  As soon as I gave you the can you started shaking it with all the power your little arms could muster.  You shook that can, squealed with delight, shook it some more, and laughed your little ass off.

It’s such a little thing but in that moment I felt the overwhelming love that I was supposed to feel 10 months ago in that hospital room.  I’ve felt it lots of times before then and since then.  I feel it every moment of every day now.  I am so thankful you’re here and that you are who you are.

In a few days your mother and I are going to take you to the hospital for surgery and it’s not going to be easy for any of us.  On the outside at least you won’t be the same as you were before.  With that said – you are not a leg, and you aren’t an ankle, and you aren’t a foot.  You’re so much more than that and when in a few months I (hopefully) watch you take your first steps I know I will be so proud.  I won’t be proud because you added a new line on your baby resume.  I’ll be proud of you in the same way I was so proud and happy when you shook that can of coconut cream.  I will be proud to be your dad and to have the privilege of caring for you, providing for you, and watching you grow and learn.  I will be proud to have witnessed your journey right from the start.  I will be, and am, so incredibly proud.  I love you very much and I am so thankful you came into my life.  Happy Thanksgiving.

what do you see? (day 25)

Right now, this very minute, I’m thankful for bedtime stories. The over and over again. The comfort of it all. 

No photo tonight. A photo would spoil it. 

family (day 24)

Last night, I unlocked my phone to open WordPress and saw a text from my mom with the words wreck and transfer truck in it. Happily, they were accompanied by the words Glenn and I are fine. I used what would have been my writing time to continue texting with my mom.

I suppose it goes without saying that I am thankful for my family. Yet it’s worth saying. And it bears repeating. I am thankful for my family. 

I was going to write about my family even before mom’s texts. Really, I was. They’ve been on my mind. My eldest aunt has hosted my mom’s side of the family for Thanksgiving since my grandmother died, but her husband has taken ill, and she’s very understandably bowed out. And so, for the first time in several years, I won’t be seeing her, or my mom, or any other family on Thanksgiving. 

I have been mourning that. Thanksgiving is my family’s holiday, the one with the best food and football rivalry, the the only one that still brings us all together. Last year, my family gave us a baby shower after dinner. Most of them haven’t yet met Henry. I was looking forward to passing him around, to seeing how delightful he would find it all and how delighted they would be in him. I’ll miss that. And them. 
But I am lucky that I have family I’ll actually miss. And lucky, too, that I can spend the day with Michael and Henry. 

And I’m lucky in that Henry reminds me of my family and why they matter to me. He just got these cowboy pajamas that remind me of my grandfather.
He would have loved them. My aunt and her husband would like them, too. Keep a good thought for them both, would you? 

second verse (day 23)

  
Michael often teases me about my excellent memory for songs and the like. I suppose this is okay payback for when I tease him about mistaken lyrics. Listen, Henry, Mama is making up verses again. I know six verses for “Jesus Loves Me,” for instance. 

My knack for memorization got me through comprehensive exams unscathed. It makes me a good reader, a good listener and a good teacher. It gives me songs to sing when I am sad, or when Henry is resisting a nap. It gives me poetry to recite when I’m stuck in a waiting room or an elevator, or an MRI. It gets me through my day. 

I sometimes can’t recall what I needed at the grocery store, or why I walked into a room, but I am thankful for my memory. And for the impulse I have to memorize, to memorialize. I probably will not keep this gift forever, but I shall cherish it while I can. 

this mess (day 22)

 
I’m thankful today for the chance to sit next to my husband and do something boring, like shop online for baby clothes together, while the baby we’re clothing bangs on old cookie tins and looks at us every once in a while to wonder why we’re sitting together on the couch. 

And though a messy house can make me feel a little crazy, I’m happy for the mess. It means Henry’s had a good time playing today, and that’s his most important work. 

in the park (day 21)

 
We’ve had a lovely and lazy Saturday so far. We began with cuddles and a little backlit video for the grandparents. Then we ran a quick errand, grabbed bubble teas, and took Henry to swing at the park. Michael made vegan chocolate chip cookies this afternoon while I helped Henry nap and caught another episode of a silly historical drama I’ve been watching. Now, Michael works on dinner while Henry alternately plays and watches his daddy cook. And I write here about our day. I’m thankful for the time we get to spend as a family. I wonder how it will look on days to come. I’m glad I had this chance to stop and think, to record this day here to look back on. 

a double (days 19-20)

 
Since had to return a few library books before I left campus today, I decided to go to the tenth floor and visit this view. 

We live in a cozy duplex, in a quiet neighborhood, just beyond the hustle and bustle of Atlanta. It’s a lot like the photo, actually. I’ve been thinking lately about how lucky we are to live here, how thankful I am for our little corner of the world. Our next door neighbor has a gorgeous Japanese maple tree, presently deep red. There’s almost always an empty swing for Henry at the park down the street. There are Little Free Libraries and flower gardens and friendly faces. We can choose to spend our days with trees or tall buildings. We can shop where we’d like, from independent record stores and coffee shops to all the brands you know, and though a new Walmart opened last week, we will never have to step inside it. 

There is diversity and difference here. There are museums and restaurants. There is music. There are state-of-the-art schools and hospitals. There are opportunities to learn,  to listen, to do good, and to teach. I’m happy our son has the chance to learn and grow in this place. 

I’m happy I do, too. 

I am unhappy about the way I’ve written this, but I also cannot seem to make it better. This will have to do. I can also be thankful, I guess, for things that aren’t written easily. 

crying’s not for me (day 18)

 
On this rainy evening, I am thankful for traveling mercies, a good meal, and the love of friends and neighbors we didn’t know we had this time last year. 

I’m also thankful for a husband who will brave the weather to pick up baby ibuprofen from the grocery. 

welcome the stranger (day 17)

  
I know I’ve already dedicated a day of thankfulness to my church, but once again I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for NDUMC, the heart it has for mission, and the blessings I have known in being a part of it. 

My heart has been heavy for many reasons this week. I’ve never really looked for signs, so to speak, but this one helps my heart. 

day job (day 16)

  
Today I had the chance to do some work for my fellowship, and I’m thankful–for both the work and the fellowship itself. I am a graduate tutor at the Emory Writinng Center. It’s really lovely work on its own, and it’s a nice respite, at times, from the rest of my responsibilities. I took the photo above for our social media accounts. The skeleton is Dooley, Emory’s unofficial mascot.