I'm holding him now

Taye had a fall in church a few weeks ago. Dan chronicles it here and I tell my version here.

The day it happened Taye didn't complain about the pain. The day after, however, the pain and swelling really set in.

Pain relievers weren't doing much to make Taye feel better, and after waking up from a nap he was quite sobby, clingy, and moaned, "My eye hurt", continuously. I finally stopped what I was doing and grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer, covered it in a washcloth and plopped Taye in my lap gently holding the ice pack on his wound. I covered both of us in a super soft blanket so we could be "cozy" and started rocking and cooing mommyisms quietly in his ear.

I was so intensely struck by this moment as he burrowed into me and I felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow down and even out. It was the first time I was getting to tend to a serious discomfort he was experiencing, where nothing else seemed to help but me: Mom.

I had to hold back the tears as I smelled Taye's distinct (mostly hair product) smell and watched his impossibly long eyelashes twitter. His big-eyed blinks got longer and longer, and his eyes shut then popped back open again a few seconds later. I listened to his nose whistle just a little bit as he breathed and heard his tiny tummy rumbles.

Realizing I had missed out on all these smells, sights, and sounds in his infancy, I began to return to that "dark place", where I grieve hard for a lot of things related to the circumstances of Taye's life.

But some words came to me that stopped me from slipping into that void.

"You're holding him now."

Instantly my instinct to wallow in anguish was turned to an insatiable desire to savor the magic of this moment.

I didn't want anything to interrupt us. I mentally deigned the older three kids to stay quiet and remain in the basement watching a show. I willed my phone not to ding or buzz. The doorbell not to ring. Even my husband not to come home from work. Not yet. I wanted to stretch every second of these short minutes and ponder the happenstances of every tick and tock permanently into my heart.

I inhaled Taye's scents deeply. I listened to every crackle, gurgle, whistle, and sigh. I counted each breath as he breathed in and out. I didn't even want to blink as I sat enraptured by his fluttering lashes, watching his lids open and close, learning his pattern. I got to know my son a little better. I was gifted a few short minutes to travel back in time and know him as a baby as we clung to each other weathering his injury together.

And though I hated that he was hurt and suffering, I realize that heaven had granted me the irretrievable gift of those few revelatory minutes.