Day 21: Huckle

Last night my sweet Huckle sprouted an extra digit in his age. Suddenly, he’s one decade old! And he's five feet tall! I look at him stretched out in his bed fast asleep, and I am in awe. He seems to go on for miles. I can still picture the little armful of wonder he was ten years ago. I still remember feeling awed by that little life, the responsibility of its care and keeping, the fact that he was my own progeny and shared half of my chromosomes. Life and its continuity and its growth are incredible!

Huckle's birth opened my eyes to a mother's capacity for pain -- a long labor, with drugs given too little and too late; an prolapsed uterus from pushing for 4 hours; pain so excruciating that I fainted between contractions (and everyone thought I was sleeping so nicely...). It was nothing like I had pictured -- me sweaty but triumphant, cuddling a sweet little bundle in my arms, feeling a life-bond connection with him from the second my eyes finally saw him; whisper-singing the happy birthday song to him and then inviting the delivery staff in for a birthday toast.  Instead, I was given a quick look at him before he was carted away so the doctors could put me back together. And, in that quick moment when I first saw him, no bonds were formed. He looked unfamiliar and red and sticky. I lay there, hearing the panic in my doctor's voice as she called her colleagues into my room. I was only there physically; my mind was following that cart, hoping to catch another glimpse, hoping that baby would look more familiar on further consideration.

A day later, I was home,  physically a wreck and emotionally a victim of post-traumatic stress. I did my mommy duties and grew in love for my boy. But I also cried for weeks, remembering the pain and the helplessness, the memory of being trapped in those endless cycles of contractions, pain beyond what I had known existed outside hell. Though I loved him, Baby Huckle seemed like an alien creature with alien needs like nursing, which was hard and painful. Chaffing, mastitis. We worked at nursing for weeks: 10 minutes left + 10 minutes right + 10 minutes left + 10 minutes right; repeat every 3-4 hours. That was another picture shattered -- that a mother and her infant would need to work at something that was supposed to be so natural and beautiful.

Then came the colic: Huckle shrieked piercingly and endlessly from age 1 month to age 4 months. Every afternoon through evening (the "bewitching hours"), we wore ourselves out, walking his scream-racked little body through the house and around the yard, through the house and around the yard, through the house and around the yard, wearing a path over the carpet and lawn, rubbing him and patting him and hugging him and bouncing him and snuggling him and wanting nothing more than for him to be comfortable and happy. And quiet. We were exhausted and at our wits end and convinced we were failing as parents.

Huckle did stop screaming at age 4 months. In fact, he stopped everything: he stopped moving, he stopped eating, he stopped breathing. Huckle was diagnosed with infant botulism, a rare and terrifying experience, a near loss except through God's providence of a good hospital and our parenting instinct, which thankfully we followed despite feeling like failures at that point. Huckle remained in the hospital for 10 dark days with this paralyzing infection, a tiny 4-month-old in the middle of a huge hospital bed. Even the nurses cried to see such a helpless and tiny body hooked up to to many machines, for breathing, for eating, for monitoring.

 Looking back, it seems we were thrown into the deep end of the parenting pool. Looking back, I see our strength instead of our weakness, our endurance instead of our helplessness, our love for Huckle instead of our fears, God's providence instead of our confusion.

I didn't just learn a mother's capacity for pain through Huckle. I also learned a mother's capacity for delight. No personal accomplishment could bring as much pleasure as the accomplishment of one's child. No personal strength or talent or gift can bring as much satisfaction or joy as those of one's child. My dear Huckle. I love him so dearly. I am amazed by God's gifting of him and look forward to seeing how he will serve in this world.

• Huckle is a boy of integrity -- he is honest; loving what is right and loving to do what is right. His conscience is razor sharp and he heeds it faithfully. 
• Huckle is a boy of zeal -- his enthusiasm knows no limits and infects those around him, whether about paper airplanes or calligraphy or a particular book or electronics or Legos or palindromes or cats or God. 
• Huckle has an inquisitive mind overflowing with questions and wonderment and suggestions and inventions and possibilities. He is a whirlwind of brain energy who questions his PhD parents until we must admit ignorance! His mind is nimble and tenacious.
• Huckle has an indomitable spirit. Huckle does not give in to injustice and does not give up. He loves to compete and improve. He is up for any challenge.

This boy is a gift, a joy, a blessing. I thank God for the privilege of being Huckle's mother, and I humbly pray for strength and wisdom as I continue to parent him.