Tonight when I put Aaron down to sleep, I held him a bit longer than normal before laying him down in his bed. He snuggled right up with his head tucked under my chin and his arms draped over the tops of mine. He is no small child: his nickname “little man” suits him just fine.
Wanting to cuddle him a bit longer, but feeling the ache of arms that had already held him much of the day, I opted to lie down on the bed on my back with his body splayed out on top of mine. He was quite sleepy having declined his afternoon nap today, and so he lay warm and still over my heart. Today was Aaron’s first birthday, and I had tears in my eyes as I marveled that one year ago we lay together in such a similar embrace: our first. He was so fragile then, so small and new. Tonight he could not fit on my chest; his long arms and legs hanging off the edges of me.
We had Aaron very soon after having Mercy, sooner than any sane person would recommend, and there was something about that I think that caused me to take the miracle of him for granted: the miracle of a little life that grew into a person inside of me; and the miracle of that life finding its way out! We have good friends who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was born with severe heart defects. I have hovered in prayer for them, and have rejoiced in his healing and recent homecoming. He was a good reminder for me that nothing about having children should ever be taken for granted: conception, gestation, delivery, and those early days of their life outside the womb. And, in fact, every day after that.
Lying tonight with my baby boy, my little man who has already seemed to abandon his infancy too quickly, I cherished the miracle.