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10.5 months.

July 5, 2011

Hey Bup.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written you. In the weeks since my last letter you have become quite mobile. Subsequently I’ve become tired. The two are curiously related.

You crawl and scoot and climb and roll over and under and around everything in our house. Every shelf is unturned. Every door pushed open and closed. Every knee level surface has been conquered. Every toilet paper roll unrolled. And every time I see you, you brandish a new knot upon your head. The act of such mobility comes at quite a risk as your motor skills are further advanced than your ability to balance the top half of your body.

I remember when I was pregnant with you and I dreamed of being the kind of mother who would mold you into a smart, beautiful, loving child. I vowed that you wouldn’t watch anything on television besides PBS. I knew certainly that you wouldn’t own any toys that required batteries. I promised myself that I would make all of the food that you put into your body. I swore that I would spend every free minute with you, teaching you your letters and numbers and long division. Along with a litany of other things I imagined myself being or doing or teaching that just never came true. The truth is, you saw the entire last season of The Biggest Loser. And I just ran out of a bulk pack of batteries we used to power the crate of plastic, battery operated, noise making, toys we have in our living room. I don’t make all of your food, in fact you quite like french fries. I do spend every free minute I have with you but I haven’t shown you one flash card. If I’m being honest, as of late, my only focus has been on getting you to perform the elusive “high five”. In all senses of the word, I have failed.

But being a mommy is weird in a lot of ways. We expect failure in every sect of life. We anticipate the babies to fall down and bump their head. We laugh about our husbands dropping the ball from time to time. We never break a sweat when gas prices go up or the weather takes a destructive turn. Because that’s life. But when we fail to live up to a standard that only we could dare to set for ourselves, that’s when our brains begin to melt and things become seemingly dreary. Even though we know that in the long run, the gas prices will have a more lasting effect than the loss of last night’s burnt dinner or the pile of unfolded laundry on the bed. Tomorrow you will wake up and chew on your crib rail and I will come in to find your face covered in paint chips. And in my brain I’ll see the word “FAIL” flashing in big bright red letters. And it may blind me from seeing that, despite the paint chips, my baby is still happy to see me.

Granted, you may be senile with lead poisoning, but in my gut I’ll know you are happy. And if I haven’t figured it out by the time you read this, and you don’t feel like it would be totally outside the realm of truth, can you remind me that you are happy and healthy and that I made it through with a semi passing grade? Or you can carry the resentment of knowing I didn’t feed you anything but lead paint chips throughout your infancy. Whichever.

So here we are. Nearing on 11 months old. You’ve officially been out longer than you were in. And when I think back on the last 19 months since you have had life inside of your body, I can hardly begin to imagine a day when you and I weren’t connected. Like before you, I was another woman, living another life, dreaming of silly, inconsistent, unnecessary things. Before you my life did have meaning, as a Christ follower and as a wife. But before you my life was all beautiful melody with no harmony. You’ve bound it all together with some flats and sharps and tones I’ve never heard. Revealed the beauty of those melodious gifts. Helped me realize the genius of that song. And given me the courage to sing it.

I’ll never find a way to thank you for being my son. So I pray every day that I find a way to thank God appropriately by pointing you towards Him. That the nourishment you find in this life isn’t man made with pride and gluttony, but edifying in every way possible to your soul. I want you to feel what a blessing you are to me as you grow by seeing how much I thank Jesus for you.

And through that, my beautiful boy, you will find the same beautiful melody in this life as I have.

All day and all night I love you,
Your sassy momma

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3 Comments leave one →
  1. Jen permalink
    July 6, 2011 6:52 pm

    Oh Laura Lou…I love this. You say it so beautifully and Judah is so lucky to have such a smart amazing woman to call mommy…now stop giving me goosebumps-I just shaved my legs!!! Xo forevs.

    • July 6, 2011 9:52 pm

      LOL! Okay that cracked me up. I love you 🙂

  2. Nicole Sneed permalink
    July 8, 2011 10:19 am

    Oh, you did it again…brought tears to my eyes! lol You do such a great job of saying things that I feel but haven’t put words to. When I read what you write about being a certain type of mother (the mythical “perfect” mom), I feel like we are so similar! It’s amazing how things change once the child is actually in the world! 🙂 And I must tell you that I am working daily myself to teach Abram how to high five…it’s like “our” thing. And I love it. I’m sure we’ll get around to the flashcards one day!

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