I have to apologize; this whole writing thing is a lot harder when you have three kids. I am out of practice and it takes a long time to write these days.
When I was pregnant with Henry, I used to joke with my sister that he would be my easiest. He’d be perfect. Sleep through the night immediately. Eat well. Nap well. Go with the flow.
In other words, I 100% jinxed myself.
While Henry is an absolute delight and one of the great loves of my life, he didn’t really sleep through the night consistently until two weeks ago. At 17 months. I wish being a good sleeper were hereditary, but it’s just not.
Sorry pre-bonus-baby Jessica. You may blog about parenting, but you ain’t no expert.
However deep my sleep deficit is today, I am thankful that when the world landed on my shoulders last Spring, his restless, hungry body was there to comfort mine. With his sweet, warm head nuzzled into my neck, it was if God had made us puzzle pieces 31 years apart. Hand picked. Fearfully and wonderfully made.
There were moments during Jackson’s cancer treatment where I would be absolutely paralyzed with fear in the middle of the night. I’d lay there in bed, praying, and asking for comfort. Please. Slow my mind, Lord. From the other room, Jackson would stir. I’d go get him and bring him into bed to sleep. His sweet, sticky, bald head pressed to my teary cheek. Hand picked. Fearfully and wonderfully made.
The child, the comforter.
The things you learn from your kids…does it stun you as much as it stuns me?
I’m not talking about little things like what the ceiling fan looks like from a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. Or how Pokemon trading cards work. Big stuff. Like how I’ve learned steely strength from a one-year-old getting chemo. Perseverance from sugar-and-spice Abby. Gratitude that fills your heart from bonus baby Henry.
How is it possible that — at 9,5 and 1 — they are my greatest teachers? I was supposed to be the teacher. The one handing out the syllabus and correcting their work. Isn’t that how this whole thing works?
Or, is it? Maybe there’s no difference between student and teacher. Maybe we’re all a giant work in progress, from start to finish. The child, the comforter, the teacher. Each fearfully and wonderfully made.