scribblechic

I wish I could paint the moment I met my son.   He looked at me with large brown eyes and I could not speak for the overwhelming beauty of his tiny soul.  I slipped my fingertip into his firm grasp and pleaded silently that he know what I could not say.  It was a handshake of sorts, a new partnership in my endeavor as a mother.  I promised to do my best if he could hold on tightly and know that he was loved.

I stumbled through my first months as a new mother.  The book What to Expect When You’re Expecting was unfinished and my first Lamaze class a date yet unmet when my son came into this world prematurely.  I was intimidated, unprepared, and overwhelmed.

I counted my blessings between emotional greetings and departures from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that was my son’s first home.  Hospital visits were weighted with the worry of first time parents and magnified by monitors hovering over sleeping infants where musical mobiles ought to have been.  Oblivious of our audience, my husband would sing What a Wonderful World in the gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong to the tiny bundle tangled in tubes and I would nestle our son against my skin feeling more complete with him near.

While I felt helpless and weary for my inability to make everything better, my son met his challenges with energy and strength. Tiny hands repeatedly removed the breathing tubes until doctors understood he could breathe on his own.  My husband and I had sought his bedside hoping our love would give him strength, but it was his strength that gave us hope.  It is this memory I recall each time he faces a new challenge.  I watch my son and wait for signs that he is okay; eager to help, but aware of his strength.