Monday, August 13, 2018

Theology of a baby's body

When Addie was a baby (and still now), I remember being really anxious about her growing up. I wanted to stop the clock because I loved her so much the way she was. Before she had teeth, I loved her gummy smile. I would tell my husband I didn't want her to grow teeth. When she grew teeth, I loved her more with teeth than without. Then I didn't want her to talk properly because I loved how she said "to-toes" and her baby talk. But the more she learned to talk, the more I didn't understand how I loved her when she didn't. And countless exemples of this phenomenon. The same with Davy. 

So now with Tommy, I know this will happen. I know I will like him the same or more when his teeth grow in, starts talking, etc. He's six months old. I know we barely know anything about his personality and all he does is cry and poo and occasionally smile and interact. But I still love him. Really, really, a lot. Sometimes I get mad when he wakes me up at night, but then I seem to forgive him in the morning when he coos and plays with me. 

What makes me love him? All I can say is that it's his tiny little fingers and toes. His chubby legs and arms. His round tummy. His really soft hair. His little mouth and little nose and the way they look when he cries helplessly and desperately, as if he is suffering uncontrollable pain that very moment. But then I pick him up and he smiles. The way he looks at me. That open and unguarded gaze. The way his hands touch every so gently, exploring and curious. The way his face lights up and his legs kick like a rabbit when I talk to him or his siblings do. His hands. Have I mentioned his hands?

Oh Tommy, don't grow up. 

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