It's eight or nine at night and Lewis, my second born only a few months old, is arching and crying, again. I've lost count how often this happens. Sometimes, his back and neck seem stronger than my arms. Sometimes, it's hard to hold him. Sometimes, I cry because I just want to snuggle him in like a "normal" baby or have him sleep on my chest. Sometimes, actually often, my mind goes through every possible explanation of arching causes I've seen by Google search.
It's a few weeks earlier and in the darkness of night I have to wake my kind husband and ask him to put our sweet boy back to sleep. I cry because in the silence of the night my mind screams the worst-case scenario to me. Post-partum, sleep deprivation, and worry wear on my last nerve and I'm convinced of the worst for my son. And in this moment, I cannot shake it.
My tendency is to anticipate any illness, ER trip, fall, bump or bruise imaginable so I can prevent it or at the very least respond quickly so less damage is done. It's exhausting. But this is what love does, right? It anticipates and helps and diagnosis and works out "all the bad". And if this is what love is surely, I love this boy the most, more than anyone else. My worry and fear and constant explanations' search are displays of my love.
Except that is not love.
Love is meeting someone where they are at right now. You see (and by 'you' I'm meaning me), wishing someone better and hoping the best for them are different. Striving and peace are different. Exhaustion and rest are different. Fear and love are different. So are control and love.
I'm not sure how or when I mixed all these up. And I'm not sure that the answer to those questions matter- the 'how' or the 'when'. I'm learning to live in all the chaos, imperfections, and difficulties raising babies brings. I'm learning to love Lewis with his strong neck and back, to love his indication that he is tired or hungry or full or gassy, to love how he is wired and made, to work with him and not against him, to not wish him different for my own gain or benefit, to not respond to him out of my own fears.
It's midday and Lewis is eating to soothe himself. He arches back and cries almost uncontrollably. I can do nothing to relieve his pain, but I can hold him here. I can bounce him and rock him in my arms. At some point the pain eases or the air bubbles are released (there are always many possible answers). Exhausted, he nearly collapses on my chest and peacefully sleeps. I peacefully cry. I love this boy.
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