When I held Cody for the first time, the love I felt for this scrawny, red baby, whose massive head took up the majority of the 7 lbs., 8 oz., he weighed, staggered me. I didn’t know love could come so sharply, complete rapture at its heels. I took him home and spent long minutes staring at him, not quite able to believe he was mine. I never really thought I’d have a son since girls are so prominent in my family. Having just one baby after twins allowed me to connect with him much more quickly than I had with his sisters and the bond was so strong, I thought it might consume me.
The first time his little limbs jerked unmercifully, I knew what was happening. He was just seven months old and my heart screamed. My perfect baby boy would now have to go through all the unpleasant tests his sister did, most likely begin medication, and gone would be the dreamy attachment I had to him. Jolted out of my infatuation, I grieved for the loss of the child I thought he would be. The future was unsure – would he be able to play sports? Drive? Would he grow out of it?
His seizures were harder to control than his sister’s ever had been and he had far more of them. It took several combinations of medication before we found the right one to stop the spasms. Now, four years later, he sits by me, content, seizure- and medication-free, pointing at pictures as he recounts the story in the book. Occasionally he looks up to see if I’m still listening. I wonder if he sees the adoration in my eyes.
As I tuck him in to bed, it strikes me that he is just who he needs to be; perhaps not the boy I had pictured when he was a baby, but something altogether more precious and endearing. Whether or not he gets to play sports or drive is inconsequential; having the pleasure of watching his unique personality emerge is one of the greatest privileges in my life. I imagine that someday he’ll look into the same bottomless blue eyes of his own child and see the shroud of expectations he has fabricated for him or her fall into shreds, and then he too will know what it is to love completely, with no reserve.
How do you show your kids you love them?
How do I show my kids I love them? Read to them, tell them stories, play with them, tell them I love them, hug and snuggle with them; also the more mundane physical things that they don’t appreciate — feed and clothe them, do laundry, etc.; and the “moral development” things I *know* they don’t appreciate (but will) — guide and correct them.
Wow, that looks like such a short list, yet it takes 24 hours a day every day!