Tag Archives: Memories

Lungs and other miracles

This morning I opened the door to my son’s room at 6:33am to find him fast asleep.  I know by now that if he doesn’t wake up on his own, we’re in for a morning of tantrums–and that will only make us late.  So I snuggled in next to him and put my arm around him, leaving my hand on his sweet toddler chest.  Listening to his breath go in… and out.  Feeling his chest rise… and fall.  In and out.  Rise and fall.

I often do this when he’s sleeping.  I know he can sense my presence and that will start to wake him a little.  But for the first minute or three, he is fast asleep.  In these moments, I am always reminded of his lungs.  His precious miracle lungs.  It may seem an odd thought, but Charlie was born three weeks early, and I remember thinking that his lungs may not be ready.  I remember learning at some point in my pregnancy that lungs are one of the last things to develop–and babies born early often have respiratory problems.  So to me, the lungs in his chest feel like the icing on the cake.  The final detail.  The last little miracle before the miracle of his birth.

The chapter of pregnancies and births is over for me–and I imagine I will always mourn that a little.  But in the quiet couple of minutes before my son starts to rouse, when only the sound of his sweet breath fills my ears, I am awestruck by this miracle of life that is my child.  And though he grows bigger and taller and smarter every day–with my hand on his chest, rising and falling, he is always and forever my miracle baby.

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A tiny piece of paper

I’m watching my 10 month old play independently while my 2.5 year old naps (a rare thing on the weekend.)  It is one of my favorite things to do–to sit back and watch her engage the world.  I remember reading about the importance of independent play when Charlie was a baby.  It was tempting to get all up in his face and be the one he was playing with.  But sitting back–watching my kids play on their own–it has taught me so much about their personalities.  Just now, Lucy Rae was playing with a small piece of red paper–a remnant from a craft her brother and I were working on yesterday.  She kept hiding the small piece of red paper in the crevice between the cushions and the arm of the couch.  She’s in that fun–but frustrating at meal-times–stage of dropping things to see what will happen.  Amazed by gravity.  And she loves peek-a-boo, and the idea of things going away, then coming back.  But this hiding of a small piece of red paper in the crevice of the couch cushions–this feels different.  There’s something about the deliberateness of her actions–a thoughtfulness and intentionality of sorts–it tells me to pay attention.  I can see this moment, this tiny action I might have missed, as being an early hallmark clue to just who Lucy Rae might be as a person.  And so I file it away in my mind, tucking it into a tiny space, deliberately and intentionally, for safe-keeping.

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