Baby, Sing with Me Somehow

I was born helpless.  I can't remember my first memory so I rely on the memories of others.  My mom told me the minute she saw me she loved me.  My dad told me I fit into one of his big hands and that my first diaper didn't do its job.  Both folks said the same thing in different ways.  Both of them felt the same way.  My existence meant they were going to be the best parents they could be.

I have a very childlike bias towards my mom and dad.  I'd still tell anyone else on the playground that I have the best ones on the planet.  I mean it.  I really think this still even though I've known for several years now that no one is perfect--that even they are human.  A lot of times, they have separated their own struggles from how they raised me so that I have not had to personally discover some of the heartache they have known.  They have made me self-confident.  (Some would argue overly-confident.)  I know love and I'm able to love because I've been loved unconditionally by two humans and by God since before I was born. 

There are all kinds of parents.  There are ones who've done things much differently than the ones I have known, but who've loved their children equally as much.  There are ones who love their kids, but who haven't tried enough or have simply failed to get these individuals they've helped to create and nurture until adulthood.  There are ones who didn't know what to do, but they figured it out anyway.  There are ones who didn't know beforehand that being a parent is scary and life changing.  There are ones who don't realize that the existence of a loving spouse and a child are the best means to try to work toward silencing the screaming demands of the overly-selfish self-centered nature that seems to come free with the deal of being alive.  There are other parents I won't mention here.

There are all kinds of children.  There are ones who cause their parents to realize that they better consult a Greater Plan.  There are ones who drive their parents to wait on God and trust that they have raised their children to be able to discern what good choices are as compared to the others, even though they will also make some bad and hopefully not many dangerous ones.  These children might cause their parents to have to wait a while to see the fruits of their hard work and love as their child's overall path leads them to something greater than just what the physical world offers.  There are children who love their parents but say mean things to them because they haven't figured how to maturely deal with anger without trying to make the ones they love feel as low as their emotions trick them into feeling.  There are kids who have lots of hope.  There are kids who are hard to understand.  There are kids who help teach their parents how to be better parents if their parents will let them.

I don't know what kind or kinds of kid mine will be, but I want to learn things from him while I teach him.  I want him to know the love and security I've known.  I'm thankful this has been made so clear to me.  I wish that every child and parent alike could know such security.

An Open Letter to You

Dear Kid,

Last night you were rocked to sleep as I danced to disco and club favorites.  You already do your own thing--you started dancing only after I stopped to rest.  Your dad danced all night long with extra soul included since I was taking it easy.    

I missed not getting to unleash the dance beast.  I worried I was jarring you around too much.  My back started feeling older than its 28 years.  Sometimes I wonder if my body will ever work the way I was used to it working up until I started making you.  (I wonder that much less than I wonder about you though.)  Even if this body can't walk as far and move as effortlessly, I'm happy it seems to be a suitable temporary dwelling for the beginning of you.  If I lament not being able to clean the entire house without feeling repercussions later in the day, I rejoice that my body knows what to do for you without me even giving it any orders.

By the way, one of your grandmas said your mom and dad "are the weirdest dancers" she's ever seen last night.  I think we work pretty well off each other on the regular dance floor as well as on the dance floor of life.  I don't think it's weird.  I think it's fun.  I hope you'll dig coming up with sweet moves with us too.  

Speaking of moves, I've identified four of the moves in your repertoire so far:
1.  The classic punch/ kick
2.  "The Bulldoze": where you slide a bigger part of yourself--maybe your bottom or your head--across my belly
3.  "The Whoa": where no one can tell what you just did but it's big and impressive
4.  "Rhythmiccups": where your hiccups come at perfect intervals for a few minutes at a time

You're the most interesting person I've come into contact with.  People always want to talk about you to me.  They can't wait to meet you either.

Love,
Mom