Happy Birthday to My Little Love

I lied.

With the best of intentions, I sat down last week to jot down some funny anecdotes about how my hubby leaves the kitchen cabinet doors open, garbage on the counters, clothes in the dryer, and never, ever replaces the freakin' toilet paper roll...Like that's sooo hard!? Blogtime ended mid-thought by an early end to my almost two-year-old's nap.

Two. How did that happen already? Two years full of love, laughter and memories. And then the tears started.

In the first blog post, I shared that the purpose of this blog is for my children. To be frank, there's an overarching fear within me that my life will be cut short and they won't have all of the information they need or won't be able to hear my "voice". At their births, I began a separate journal of letters to my children; today, I'm sharing a letter written for my Birthday Boy. So, there you have it. I lied. This post may make your eyes leaky.

October 14, 2014

Dear Jimmy, My "Little Love"...
Happy Birthday, Jimbo!

I love and hate that you are two. I love that you can say "two," but I hate that it's time for you to give up your pacifier. Two years of giggles and tears every single day (sometimes within minutes of each other) and two years of filling up my heart with a gratitude and a wholeness I have never felt until you came along. From your first breath, you have taken mine away, and have done so each moment thereafter. My life begins and ends with you; thank you for being mine.

You are growing, growing, growing so fast. Stop it already. Seriously.

I think of all you have learned in this last year and am in awe: run, jump, dance, speak, create...all of these came to you so naturally and are parts of your unbending daily routine.

Part of your daily "schtick" centers around music. Maybe that has something to do with your father, who is far more musical than your tone-deaf mother (you actually cry when I sing to you sometimes)... Or more honestly, I think your musicality comes from the Anesthesiologist, who, in the moments before your birth, thought background music was an absolute necessity. U2's Greatest Hits (doctor's choice!) echoed throughout the OR and at the moment I first saw you, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" was playing. Bono couldn't have been more wrong.

You were exactly what I was looking for, exactly what I needed. You came to me when my heart was so full of grief because GeeGee had walked the Rainbow Bridge just a mere 3 months prior. How your personality from Day 1 was so effortless and enjoyable after growing alongside a broken heart defies all logic. You are a miracle baby. You will always be my baby. 2, 22 or 82 years old. Always.

Jimmy, I wish you more love and laughter and as many trucks, cartoons and dance parties as you can handle in this upcoming year. I hope the music in your heart continues to play wherever you go, your feet keep you skipping along, your left-arm fastball to stay out of the house and your snuggles and sharing and learning never end. But the teething?...the teething can go any time now.

I love you. Always.
Love,
Mama
xoxo

Why the Name?

Two years ago, while pregnant with my first child, I spent 13 days caring for my Ma who was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. I would have given all of my days to have spent more time with her, but 13 is all I got. 

My Ma didn't want visitors, didn't want people to see how sick she suddenly was and how quickly she was declining. We had hopes the metastatic cancer would at least allow her to meet her only grandchild, a boy to be named Jimmy, just three months later. 

Time can be fickle and wasn't on our side. Thirteen days later we said our final goodbyes. But I got 13 full days of love and honesty and laughter that nobody else got. I got to see my Ma as she made the transition from this earth to what comes next. I got a crash course in motherhood, because she knew she wouldn't be here to tell me what she needed to when things came up. I'm lucky to have had that. Thirteen, albeit short, days was what life thought was all that was needed to put a capstone on an indelible existence. A short and sweet exit for a short and sweet lady.

During that time, Ma would take little naps: just to take the edge off, maybe just her mind off, of the inevitable. She awoke from one of those naps and giggled and pointed to my swollen tummy and said, "The next one won't be so easy," to which my response was, "Why, is it a girl?" and with a nod, my mother, who I'm sure during her nap met the little lady who would greet us just 17 months after my son was born, whispered: "You'll be more seasoned then..."

After the birth of my daughter, I had more than just the typical "maternal instinct" that something wasn't right...I kept hearing my mother's voice "You'll be more seasoned then..."After weeks and weeks of countless sleepless nights, doctors appointments, and feeling helpless as baby cried, I found a doctor who listened to me when I declared that her pain wasn't "just gas" as I begged not to be turned away. I kept thinking that if I was "more seasoned" as my Ma said, I should know what typical infant gas is... and this was not it. And I was right.

Baby M was born with a congenital defect called Organoaxial Volvulus of the stomach. Basically, her stomach was twisting intermittently, causing blockages. Of course this would cause agonizing pain. If not caught and surgically corrected in time, my baby would not have been cared for by me, but cared for by my Ma, on the other side.

So "More Seasoned Then," is part of who I am, part of what defines me. It will be remembered as one of the last full conversations I had with my Ma. In thinking of a title for a blog that I've intended on writing for years, it seemed like a natural fit. 

I hope you stay tuned to what's to come on "More Seasoned Then..." I promise, not all entries will be so heavy. As I glance into the kitchen to see my hubs, yet again, left cabinet doors open, I'm pretty sure I found my first light topic. 

XOXO