8 months--a letter to my son

My biggest fear has been realized--time really is racing by now that we are together.  I see you growing--it's more than just height and weight.  You discover new sounds and new things every day.  Lately you have taken to exploring rooms that you previously were only held in.  The kitchen and your bathroom are especially busy places these days.  Today you are 8 months old and we have been a family for 32 days.  Every morning you greet me with smiles and hugs and every evening as I prepare you for sleep you nestle into my neck and hug my shoulders.  I could never have imagined anything feeling so good in all my life.  And when you giggle...well, I smile with gratitude.  It is the best music I have ever heard and I would make any face, give you whatever I had to hear you giggle again.  You give smiles away freely, but you always reserve the double-dimple ones for me.  I can't even get a photo of them because you get so serious when I put the camera in front of my face.

People often ask me "is it as hard as you thought it would be?".  I never have a good answer for that because I don't know how hard it is supposed to be.  I know that parenting you has been a joy so far.  I know how lucky and blessed I am.  I know what a miracle you are--not that you were born and survived, but that we became a family.  Two people from opposite sides of the world with nothing but a need for family in common. 

Your trust amazes me.  I am amazed every day that you smiled and reached for me that first day.  I am amazed that you still do.  Your faith is so much greater than my own.  You trust that even when I am late with meals or diaper changes that I will do what I promised to do from the beginning--to love and care for you. 

I am amazed at how you impact those around you.  You make me smile.  A lot.  Honestly, I don't feel any different but people tell me I look happy.  Content.  Peaceful.  Glowing.  I hear these adjectives every day.  I look in the mirror and see the same person, but I know I smile more as a result of you.  Even when you aren't around I smile more.  I can't wait until you wake up in the morning--I just want to see your sweet face again.

You reduce strangers to tears.  That, too, happens almost daily.  People approach us after reading our story and obliged to tell us both how lucky we are.  After spending only a few minutes together they tell me repeatedly how lucky I am.  I suppose the repetition is to remind me how lucky I am.  I need no reminder (although it is always nice to hear).  I am lucky.  You are an exceedingly happy baby and I think you will be a very happy man someday.  You make men and women want to have children, even those that have sworn they would never have children.  So, yeah, you make parenting look easy. 

I look at your face and see the wonderment of it all.  There are so many unanswered questions about who you are.  I can't help but feel like I am stealing another woman's joy.  It's a question people ask me that I always cringe away from, but one that I often ask in a rhetorical sense "how could anyone possibly look at that face and walk away from it?"  I know why--I understand the financial strain a child brings and the difficulty of raising a child alone or without family assistance or approval.  I get it, but I don't.  My brain understands what my heart can't possibly comprehend after loving you. 

I love you, son.  I love you in ways I didn't think possible.  Your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy.  I thank God every day that I get to feel both of these.    

With your cousin.  She loves you more than I could have ever hoped for.  She tells everybody that you are her baby.  She wants to hold you constantly and whines until she does.

With Auntie Lou.  She fights with Opa just to hold you.  You are really going to like her the older you get.

Told ya.

With Opa.  He adores you. 

 

With Oma.  You both light up every time you see each other.  It's beautiful to watch.