First Born

Son, do you know how humbled I am by your spirit?  Can you see it in my eyes the unbounded hope and love I have for you?  Can you feel it when I wrap my arms around you?  Do you sense it when I tell you how grateful I am that God gave you to me and that I'm the luckiest mama in the world because you are my son, my child, my family, and I get the immense honor of raising you and watching you grow into a man and walking beside you in life?  You are a marvel.  You are amazing.  You slip on R's rain boots and as he flops around on the floor like a large doll you shove his pudgy hands into his coat sleeves and zip him up, then standing back admire your work and declare "mama, we're going outside!" 

Where did this instant maturity come from?  Is this responsibility for your little brother innate or a byproduct of the profound love you have for him?  A big brother thing?  An oldest child thing?

I see you, Son.  I know you so well.  I know you're intelligence is advanced far ahead of your development, and that gets you in trouble.  You argue like a fifteen year old.  You possess an elephant's memory.  I see your heart.  It's good.  Strong.  Remember, I saw you in my belly on that gray-tone screen, and I heard your heartbeat when you were only three inches tall, and your Papa and I, tears streaming down our cheeks, knew then that your spirit was strong.  With that comes a heart that is soft and tender.  I saw you at 19 weeks jumping around in my womb like an elk, or a gazelle or some wonderful, wild  beast that is tiny and mighty.  You still are a wild and wonderful beast, and I sit back to watch you, and feel myself holding breath at the sight of something so magnificent, so raw and wholesome, it moves me to tears.

You are headstrong, and that's a great attribute to have as and adult.  But hard to manage when you're five.  I see you suffer for that.  In this way, you're just like me.  We learn best by learning through pain, you and I.  My prayers are always that you learn faster than your mother, so your life isn't heavy with regrets and scars, such as mine.  Oh, you will overcome them, and become your own champion, but the mountain is steep, and slippery, and you will struggle before you conquer the summit.  You and I are the like this.  I see you.  I know you so well.

You have an imagination that doesn't stop, no limits, no ends.  I see myself at five years old, my hair in pigtails and my Barbies in hand, when you play your imaginary games, your capacity to lose yourself in your play and fictional world.  I confess, I still do this through my writing, and I pray that you hold tight to your imagination.  The world will try to take it from you.  Grip to it with white knuckles.  You are a creative spirit.  God help me raise you in your own beautiful bend. You are blessed and challenged with this atypical artistic streak.  I've recently given you my palette of water colors.

This week you graduated from Crayola to Windsor Newton.  And the lame plastic bristle brush is replaced by a real sable hair Richardson's, the kind the pros use.  And you have learned to make "pigment mud," as we say, mixing just the right amount of water with the paint in the wells.  You paint like an apprentice.  You tell stories like an old man.  An old soul.  You are, as I've known all along, ancient. 

You are helpful.  You break eggs like an expert and help me read recipes.  You like to take care of R and are always generously sharing your art with us, giving us tokens of your craft.  A small scrap of paper with a Batman or T-Rex drawn on it.  A leaf or dandelion from outside.  A feather that poked through the pillow. You give.  You're a giver. Your heart is a magnanimous one.  In my rush to do and clean and cook and wash and organize, your gifts may feel wasted.  They're not.  Let me assure you.  Every tiny bit of thread, of paper, or fabric, or even the way your lids lower on your eyes to give you a distinct soft look of adoration that you get from your papa, is not wasted on me.  I absorb it.  I inhale your gifts and your help, and feel such pride in you.  If lifts me on days that I'm dragging.  You are my wings.

A mother's eye knows her son is beautiful.  When I look at you I know that you will outshine your parents with your extraordinary good looks.  A movie star.  A heartbreaker.  You'll make the dames weep with your dark sparkly eyes and deep-dimpled grins.  I pray around this often, because it can be a difficult and confusing life being so attractive. 

I see you so tall, so smart, already five and a half, and I am humbled by you. You've been my greatest teacher. I have learned so much from you, and you will never stop teaching me. Ever.  I prayed for you, for a long time, from when I was too young to even understand what it meant when my heart cried out for boy child, and God was gracious.  He was so generous.  He gave me you.  Your name means strong and masculine.  You share names with the saints.  You named for both a man who walked beside Christ, broke bread with him, drank wine with him, as well as honoring your great grandfather, also named after a saint, a man who labored hard and cursed in Spanish only to crumble on his knees before God.  You are wonderfully amazing.  My heart can't contain the love I have for you.  I know God has big plans for you.  I always pray you hear his voice.  Listen.  He's constantly speaking to us.
You are a marvel, Son.  I'm so glad you're my boy.  I know you will be an awesome man because you are an awesome person.