My baby boy turns seven next week. Not so much a baby anymore, at least for these past six years, especially now that there is an actual baby boy in our family mix again. Still, I look at him and all I remember is this big, roly-poly, hunk of a man-child that I somehow was able to give birth to and still have enough energy to feed him, take care of him, and watch him grow.
He is at the age now where, if I call him ‘baby,’ it is an insult, and he gets mad at me. Nevertheless, he still loves to cuddle, loves to kiss, loves to hold my hand, loves to tell me he loves me, and loves to be a part of this little family. He is all kindness and light and energy and creativity. He draws, writes stories, imagines, dances—he is just about everything that is good in the world.
Of course, he is not perfect. He is my child, after all. He is a bit quick to stomp his feet when he does not get his way, or to growl at me when he is displeased, or to hit back without even thinking. However, those are all just fleeting moments, short-lived evidence of a fallen nature, quick to be replaced by angelic brown eyes and a kiss on the cheek.
When I think of all that he and I went through together, from the tumultuous labor and delivery, to the long days and nights of all eat and no sleep, to the helpless months of post-partum depression, to the moves from one house to another (and another and another), to the transplantation of our family to another life in another country which seemed awfully scary at the time—we are survivors, he and I. We have done it all together.