This year, baby boy, you have taught me so much. When you were in the NICU, you taught me that no matter what happens, the sun will rise. God’s compassions are new every morning. You taught me to walk outside, breathe in the deep, cold, fresh air of the morning. You taught me to look at the leaves of a tree against the blue sky and breathe. You taught me that sometimes all you can do is 1, 2, 3, breathe in. 1, 2, 3, breathe out. And the moments will pass. The moments will turn into hours, those hours will turn into days, and there will be a new morning, a new blue sky with yellow October leaves against it to be grateful for. You taught me to sip hot coffee when it’s hot, to breathe in the hazelnut aroma, to notice and be thankful for woolen socks and lit candles. When you were on the ventilator and we couldn’t hold you, you taught me there are many ways to hold a baby. Then you grew older. Each day, you were open to more. The tubes and wires came off and though they told us you had extensive brain damage, you went home with us. You were open to the world, you reached out for it with grasping fingers. When I think of how you were in your first year, I see your hands reaching for a toy, for my hair, for my face, for your brothers, for the cat’s tail. Always reaching, reaching, always turning towards the world and towards life. You are tilted towards life. You were in that door between life and death, and you reached and grasped and ran towards life, not even knowing what you were running to. You had been held in my womb in the warm and wet dark for forty weeks, then there were needles and procedures and the cold blankets of the cooling protocol for brain damage, no skin to skin, no warm hands on your baby body. Yet you fought. For what, you didn’t know. But you fought. And you taught me to recklessly tilt towards life too, come what may. At three months, they said you had no delays. You were under a microscope from occupational therapists, physical therapists, neurologists, feeding specialists. They tilted you left and right to see if you had asymmetry. They made you swallow barium and X-rayed your throat as you swallowed to be sure you weren’t aspirating my breastmilk. You were weighed constantly, your kidneys were ultrasounded, they did an EKG on your heart, they performed reassuring neurological exams and drew your blood. At six months, you started to crawl. I lay down on the floor beside you and cried with gratitude and relief. You laughed and crawled away from me. Neurologists say you will grow into your deficits, which are most likely cognitive and speech related. Whatever they are though, they are here with me now. You already have "deficits." At one year, you are starting to show language delays and information processing delays. The strokes were biggest in those areas of your brain. You take longer to wave bye bye than your brothers did, to give me high five. You don’t point, and apparently you’re supposed to have said your first word by now. You don't look at me right away when we ask, "Where's Mommy?" You don't respond to your name as quickly as your brothers did. This year though, you’ve taught me, more than anything, to live in the moment. When I get worried about the future—will you be independent? Will you be able to talk? I look at the child in front of me. I look at you now. I know you now. And whatever your “deficits,” I’ll know you then.
You sit now on a ride-on toy, a smiling dog who sings to you when you push his nose. You say the syllables, “yeah yeah yeah!” and turn your head to look back at me and you smile.
You’re always smiling.
You’re so happy. This year, baby boy, you’ve taught me how to be happy.