slow down

I'm coming out of a few weeks of frustration. Frustration is really an all encompassing word I use for the grief, sadness, and overwhelming feelings that surface during this journey. It's really not the word that I mean when I use it because it's so much more than just...frustration.

The frustration comes from wondering when things will happen. I watch my son and wonder when he'll move, when he'll smile, when he'll be doing the next new thing. I take him to therapies. And then take him to other therapies. I create lists of things not yet tried by us. List them by priority. All of the sudden it became a mad rush. A rush to find all that I could as soon as I could to help him get better.

slow down

But I've heard that if I push him past his limits it will be good for him. Then I read that gentler movements will be better for his brain. But Botox will be great for relaxing his muscles. Then I had second thoughts. There are therapies we've attended, therapies we have planned, and therapy possibilities in the future. Hurry, hurry, hurry, there is race and I'm not really sure what winning means.

slow down

Then I was rushing. Yes, rushing again. I was rushing to some appointment, hyperbarics probably because I'm always running 5 (more like 10) minutes late, and I'm hurrying and hurrying and tailgating and cursing the car in front of me and hurrying and I hear something.

slow down

Okay. God talks to us all the time. We just have to listen. Remember?

See, these past few weeks of frustration have been filled with prayers (begging) to God for healing. But also asking God to show me something. Give me something to hold on to. Please.

When I heard slow down it wasn't the first time, so I know it wasn't just about traffic. The thing is that if I don't slow down, Christian becomes this project. A little boy, my son, who I have to heal. And that's my mission, that's my project.

He's so much more than that. He's my son. He's my boy who I'm learning about and getting to know. And I know him like nobody else, not because he can tell me how he feels or what he wants but because I can feel how he feels. And if I don't slow down I'll miss it along with all the other miracles that are easily missed if one is not paying attention. That one would be me.

So I toss my list of to-do's and I love my baby son.

And then there is a single day. A day of redemption. That day would be last Sunday when Christian's body told us he no longer needed his trache.

Time to slow down. The best miracles seem to happen on accident. And you wonder why and how and what?  But it just...is.

Last night, after a bath, I was holding my baby son in his jammies, all washed and ready for bed. I rocked him on the edge of our bed and breathed him in. He was cranky, wearing his rockstar pajamas and sporting his new faux hawk haircut. But our eyes met and in his crankiness he raised his left arm and lowered it over mine. I stared at him and saw my son in there. That boy I've been grieving for. It was him.

Sometimes our eyes meet and he looks at me and I see him again. And he stares right into my soul. I hope he knows how very much I love him as much as he can know anything at this point. I hope he feels my love.

Slowing down is mighty hard some days. Then there are days when I lean over Christian to kiss him or make funny faces and he raises his arms up to "find" me. And he touches me and it's pretty darn close to magic for me. I pick him up and he lays his head on my shoulder as his body drapes over mine. I hear his breath and it's, again, magic. Drool in my hair be damned.

So I'm making a point to slow it down. I'm taking in my son who, I swear, looks totally different, and seeing him like I haven't seen him in months. I'm holding my baby girl a little longer and snuggling with her for a few more minutes before I put her down. I joke with my first born on the way home from picking him up from school. And we laugh and play slugbug and tease and laugh some more. I can honestly say that by slowing down, I'm a little bit more in love with my kids. A little bit more healed, myself. A little less...frustrated.

So we slow down long enough for Christian's first haircut...

Look at that beautiful little neck.

Our friend, Shon, gave Christian a rockstar haircut and he did such a good job, Christian barely flinched. And, of course, mother of the year forgot her camera (because she was rushing, cough..cough) so I had to use the trusty camera phone once again.

(Better picture to come soon, I promise.)

And in case you're wondering...Christian is doing amazingly well. His oxygen levels are 97-100% all the time, even during sleep.

It was truly divine intervention. I believe that.

And Christian is amazing.

But we already knew that, too.