Monthly Archives: May 2007

Motherhood columns

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A couple columns I wrote shortly after Jonathan was born. I haven’t written a Jonathan column in awhile because my publisher told me to pick another topic to “mix it up.” Well, I’ve gotten more comments on those columns about motherhood than any other column (except the one on a sailor who died during World War II and the ship that he was on was found 60 years later). Take that bossman (just kidding!)

Walking zombie
Ah, motherhood. Or shall we say “zombiehood”? That is what this mother of an almost 4 month old has come to call it. My son and I have had some issues regarding his sleep pattern. I’d prefer that it mesh with mine and he doesn’t really recognize that. For the most part he sleeps well, but there have been several periods in the night where he thinks he must eat, ignoring the fact that mommy tried to get him to eat before he went to bed and now she would like to sleep. Children, I’ve discovered, don’t have a concept of time like adults do. They don’t understand that one should eat during the day and sleep at night.
I’ve read a number of books and articles about how to encourage your baby to sleep through the night. Many of the “tricks” are working. However, since I work during the day, there is part of me that doesn’t mind that midnight, 2 a.m., 4 a.m. and sometimes 6 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. feeding. He doesn’t actually eat that many often during the night, but some nights it sure feels that way. The time we spend together is precious to me and even if while I am spending it with him I can’t remember my own name, where I am, or who this baby smiling up at me belongs to.
Exhaustion can do some funny things to a person. Of course at the time “those things” are happening they are usually not funny at all. I’ve learned to laugh at some of the weird stuff I have done because of being so tired. Last week I tried to cross the street in Sayre and for several seconds couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t move away from my car. I then realized that I had shut my coat in the door. Instead of getting angry, as exhaustion sometimes makes me do, I laughed out loud, thinking how I must have looked to people driving by — leaning out into the road, my legs moving but the rest of me not going anywhere, and my coat stretched out behind me, trapped in the car door. That same morning I had walked outside of my house to get something from the car and started to slide on some ice. I did one of those “banana peel” slapstick routines for about ten seconds — arms flailing out to my side — but managed to stay up right. Once I was steady again, I tip-toed to my car, laughing again at how silly I must have looked.
There have been times I haven’t laughed in the moment, instead only able to laugh at myself later. This past weekend, after a fairly long day of work the day before and a long night with the baby, I found myself in the middle of my living room floor, early in the morning, sobbing while my son blinked wide-eyed at me from his swing. I hadn’t been able to get a bag open for some containers I had bought and for some reason this seemed like the biggest crisis to me. My husband heard my crying and came down the stairs to find his wife a blubbering, quivering mass of craziness (not an unusual find for him actually). The conversation between us went something like this, with me still in the floor and him kneeling behind me:
Him: “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Me, in a very whiney, pathetic wail: “These stupid things won’t open and I am so tired and waaaaa. . . (unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
Him: “Listen, I have some things to do this morning and when I come back I’ll watch the baby and I want you to go to sleep.”
Me: “I am so tired and these stupid things won’t open and I’m a horrible mother and waaaaaa. . .(unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
Him: “It’s going to be fine, honey. You’re a wonderful mother. You’re just exhausted. You’re trying to do too much.”
Me: “No, I can do this. I’m fine. It’s just this bag, these things and waaaaa. . . (unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
At this point the dog, who thinks he has to lick everything he sees, licks the containers, which have been pre-sterlized for the baby’s health. Dog slobber does not fit into my vocabulary of clean and healthy for my baby.
Me, slapping the dog in the head and flailing like a child throwing a tantrum: “Get away. Get away. Get away. Now, they’re dirty. They’re dirty!!!!! Aaaaargh! Dirty!!! . . . (unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
Him: “OK, that’s it. You’re going to bed. Get up. Let’s go. I’ll watch the baby.”
Me: “I can’t. You have things to do. I’ll be fine. All I need is something to eat and I can handle iiiiitttt — waaaaa. . . (unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
Him: “Good night, honey. See you later.”
Me, staggering up stairs: “No. I’m fine. I don’t need to go to sleep. I’m fiiine . . .(unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).”
Warren hears a thump as I hit the bed, two loud sobs, and of course, “unintelligible squeaking and whimpering” and then nothing. He and Jonathan sneak upstairs a few moments later and as, Warren likes to describe to others, there I was laying sprawled across the bed, my head back, my mouth hanging open, drool coming out, and a loud snore rattling the walls. Warren tends to exaggerate — a lot.
I’d expound more about how funny exhaustion can make you act, but I am soooo tired, this bag of thingees won’t open, the baby is crying, and I have to change his diaper and waaaaa. . . (unintelligible squeaking and whimpering).

————
Learning the real meaning of the term ‘working mother’
I stumbled down the stairs bleary eyed, a squirming three month old in my arms. I fumbled with the buttons of his onesie and the flaps of his diaper while he grinned at me and I attempted a smile. He continued to grin until I worked him into his car seat, pulling his arms through each strap. I pushed a disolvable pill into his mouth to help treat his acid reflux while tucking a blanket around his feet and realized I’d forgotten to put socks on him. I rushed up the stairs, dug through the top drawer of the dresser and found two socks, neither of them matching the other. I put them on him anyhow, casting an anxious eye at the clock.
“Stay there sweety, I’ll be right back,” I told him and rushed out the front door to warm up the car before carrying him out into the cold winter morning.
When I returned his lower lip was pushing out and a cry was beginning to form. By the time I was halfway down the street, the soft cry was a full wail.
I thanked the sitter and gulped back emotion when she slid him from his seat and gave him a reassuring smile. I thanked her and tried to sound cheerful. In the car I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Turning on to Seneca Street to head to the office I noticed a funny feeling in my chest. In the parking lot I dropped my head down again, this time weeping like a mental patient who forgot to take her morning pills. I took another deep breath and wiped away the tears, walked into the office and tried to smile. Another “working mother” asked how my first week back to work was going.
“Oh, OK,” I lied.
She knew I was lying. She asked how I was really doing. I poured my heart out like she was Dr. Phil and I was an abused housewife. I didn’t even notice until much later the frightened expression on her face. She must have felt like a lamb trapped by a rabid wild dog. Only this rabid wild dog was rambling about her puppy and how much she missed him and how she was having an awful hair day and how she’d cried when she left the baby and how she’d forgotten breakfast and . . .
Three hours later I called home, knowing my son would be home with my husband by now and asked how he was. In the background I heard my baby screaming.
“Oh, OK,” my husband lied.
I hung up quickly and locked myself in the bathroom for another good cry. It was developing into a fairly rough introduction for me into the world of a working mother.
Before I became a mother I never thought much about the term “working mother.”
‘All mothers work,’ I thought.
Today most mothers have to work outside of the home, mainly out of necessity. The need to eat and have a roof over my family’s head is why my husband and I both have to work. My mom was a stay at home mom, but growing up I was never naive enough to think all mothers have this luxury. I call it a luxury now that I am a mother because I realize how special it is to be able to stay home and spend all day concentrating on the most important career of all — mothering.
I’ve been leaving Jonathan at home with his daddy, his grandma or taking him to a sitter for about two months now, but each time I slip out of the door, or put his coat on him, I feel a lump in my throat and my chest tighten. I’ve decided that this may never get easier. I’ve had people tell me, while shrugging their shoulders, “Oh well, a lot of mothers have to do it.” I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that I don’t want to be one of those mothers anymore and sometimes I just want to be rude and scream “Well I don’t want to be ‘a lot of mothers.’”
Through my mom, I’ve discovered that guilt isn’t only reserved for the mother who has to leave her child with a sitter, or in daycare, and go into the office. My mom often told me she felt guilty that she wasn’t helping to support the family financially. I always thought it was silly for her to feel that way, especially because she supported the family in more important ways, including cooking, washing all our clothes, and simply being there to listen to all our complaints and offer us emotional and even spiritual support.
As a kid, I didn’t think much about what I might do about working outside the home when I was a mother. To be honest, I never even pictured myself as a mother, which is probably why I stare in disbelief at Jonathan so often, amazed that this little human is actually my son.
There is a lot of advice out there on how to be a good mother even when you have to work outside the home. Dr. Sears suggests that the success of parenting is not dependent on a mother being “full-time” or “part-time,” but simply being attached to their child.
“Even the artificial divisions ‘full-time’ and ‘part-time’ are misleading,” he writes. “You can be full-time at home, but only part-time interacting with your baby, or part-time at work and full-time interacting with your baby at home.”
My biggest worry about leaving Jonathan with someone else during the day is that he will forget who “mommy” is. I worry that our attachment will be broken, even though I make sure I am with him almost all the time when we are at home in the evenings and on the weekends. My thoughts are silly really. Jonathan heard my voice and lived inside me for nine months straight. I’m pretty sure he has some pleasant associations with me and favors me over anyone else holding him, with exception to his dad.
Sometimes I feel that by being upset over having to leave Jonathan to go to work makes me an immature mother, but then I remind myself that for nine months he was physically part of me, as well as emotionally. I remind myself that if I didn’t become upset at the thought of leaving him then our attachment to each other really would be broken.

Needed: Part-time job

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I’m going to be putting my feelers out for a part-time job. I need to be home with Jonathan more. He’s growing so fast and I don’t want to be a parent who looks back and wonders where all the time went — well, I’ll do that anyhow because that is life and it flies by fast. Still, I feel like I am wasting my life at this job. The time I spend with my son is more important than anything and each day that goes by shows me this more and more. Jonathan had his six-month shots on Tuesday. He was flat out cranky and miserable and wanted to be held the whole day. Unfortunately I had to go to work and write the news that many times no one appreciates or cares about. I would have rather have been home holding my son and comforting him. Instead I was in a very dull and uneventful Tioga County Legislature meeting. They recognized some foster parents and a 9-month old little boy was there. He looked so much like Jonathan and it made me want to cry when I saw him. I kept thinking about how ridiculous it was to be sitting there while they read stupid proclamations that were all about politics (or at least mainly) and making the county government look good. If they really wanted to do something they could donate some money to the foster families or maybe try to implement some programs to help the families of the children so the kids don’t have to be placed in foster care. Anyhow, I felt like I was wasting my life away sitting there. I could have been home with my son, helping him learn how to crawl, continuing to get to know him, and simply being there with someone who really matters in my life.
Finances are a major concern if I look for something part time, but having less money is worth the extra time I would have to spend with Jonathan and Warren and to think! I’m so tired when I do get time with Jonathan I can barely enjoy it because I find myself wishing he’d go to sleep so I could go to sleep or have five minutes to myself before I fall asleep. I don’t want to go through life like that. A local lady recently told me that Jonathan would get used to me working and he wouldn’t want it any other way because “it’s what he’ll be used to.” That’s how it was with her kids. A few weeks later, though, she said to me “Looking back, I see how fast it all went. Sometimes I wish I had spent more time with my family and children.” I don’t want to get to a point in my life where I look back and say “I would have been happier if I had not worked so much.” or “Look at all the time I wasted.” I don’t want to waste time any more when it comes to my son and husband. Anyhow, any of my friends who might read this (though I don’t think any of you do) pray for me that I can find a part time job (high paying) or can find a way to spend more time with my little one.

True confessions of a so called hypochondriac

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I am not a hypochondriac. Sure, my brother, my dad, my husband, and most of my friends all believe my illnesses are in my head, but that simply is not true.

Is it my fault that when I read about an illness I realize that that illness is what I have been suffering from all these years? I can’t help it if an article in the medical book described my exact symptoms or that those symptoms began to surface at the moment I was reading the article.

I found it very rude the other day when my brother cheerfully entered my parents’ house for a visit carrying a book called “First Aid for Hypochondriacs” and laughed as if it was a joke book. This is a very serious book and I’m so grateful to James Gorman (who at the time the book was published in 1982 was living in New York with a temperature of 102) for writing it.

In case there are other persecuted folks out there like me who would like to know about this book, let me relate to you some of the subjects in this book: The Importance of Panic in Any Crisis; How To Tell if Your Heart Has Stopped; Treating Shock and Disappointment; How to Say ‘I’m Sick’ in 20 Languages; and Never Use the Word Bleeding When Hemorrhaging Will Do.

Gorman’s preface to the book is truly brilliant:

“If you are one of those insufferably good people who like to help old ladies who slip on ice, and who yearn to rush to the aid of avalanche victims, this book isn’t for you. Go join a volunteer ambulance society, or give blood to the Red Cross — lots of it. This book is for people who have enough worries of their own, what with backaches, cancer and heart disease, people who don’t need to participate in mountain rescues to feel that they are gambling with death — swollen glands are risky enough. These people are hypochondriacs, which means that they — or we, since I count myself among them — care about their health. Never mind all the nonsense about hypochondria being a morbid or excessive concern with the body and health. Is it morbid to worry that a twinge in the chest could be the forerunner to the Big One? Is it excessive to insist that your wife [in my case husband] scrub down and sterilize her tweezers before she takes a sliver out of your toe? Is it too much to survey your body daily for the warning signs of cancer? No. No! No! Extremism in the defense of health is no vice. Medicine, like charity, begins at home. If you don’t look out for your body, no one else will.”
Preach it, Mr. Gorman! Whew. That is good stuff, right there. Trust me, if I didn’t continually tell people how sick I was, they would never notice!

The rest of the book is a great resource as well. It includes signs and symptoms, treatments, and first aid for some of the most common injuries and illnesses.
Take example contusions. Mr. Gorman recommends having others examine your bruises because of the “frightening changes bruises cause in the body.”

Advice offered by Gorman for contusions: “Say, ‘What a bump! Can you see it? Feel how big that is,’; Say, ‘Look at the color! Did you ever see anything like that? It must have bled a lot internally.’; Except for one-of-a-kind body parts, like the head, compare the bruised area to its normal counterpart. Have other people aid in the judging and confirm that one finger is, indeed, larger than the other. Also check the shape in case the bone might be broken.”

Although this book includes excellent advice and thoughts throughout, I especially enjoy the section on colds. What wisdom Mr. Gorman speaks when he writes that a major cause of colds is not only wet feet and winter, but “health chauvinism.”

“This is the biggest cause of colds, as well as a major source of unhappiness for all hypochondriacs,” Gorman writes. “Health chauvinists believe that it is a character flaw to catch a cold at all and unforgivable spinelessness to admit it. They are the people that are always saying, ‘I never get sick.’Consequently, while the sick hypochondriac stays at home keeping his germs to himself, the health chauvinist is out in public spreading cold virus as if it were Christmas cheer. He (or she, health chauvinism knows no sexual boundaries) seems not to notice his cough, his runny nose, the washboard scrape in his chest when he breaths. A health chauvinist with plague would come to work on a Monday morning in August and kiss you hello. Don’t try to convince health chauvinists that they are sick. Avoid them. It is not possible to be friends with them anyhow.”

My husband, I’ll have you know, is a health chauvinist. Beware.

Listen, the bottom line is — for all those out there who know they have some debilitating disease, but no one in your family will listen to you, I’m here for you.

I journeyed all the way through my ninth and tenth grade years determined I had a brain tumor. Now, simply because I didn’t have one and the symptoms gradually disappeared when I learned of other ailments I most likely had, does not mean I am a hypochondriac or a crazy person — and neither are you.

You are not alone. We’re in this together people. I’d write more encouraging words to you but my wrist is cramping and I’m quite sure it is carpal tunnel syndrome. I’m going to end this column so I can check my medical book just to be sure. I don’t know but it is possible the book could reveal to me that this pain is something much, much worse than what I originally thought it was.

First Mother’s Day

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Sunday was my first official Mother’s Day since Jonathan was born. It was a rough one in some ways because Jonathan is teething and was a little miserable. He was still a sweetheart though. I just felt like a failure because I didn’t know how to help him or comfort him when I knew he was in pain. However, I refuse to follow the advice of the book “What to Expect the First Year,” which suggests you don’t do anything to even try to comfort the baby because it won’t help him or her anyhow. Nice, huh? I comfort Jonathan whether some dumb authors of a book think it will help or not. In my humble opinion, it helps. At least he knows I’m there for him no matter what.
Anyhow, we celebrated Mother’s Day with Mom and Dad down in New Albany. Bryan was over too. Kim is studying for a EMT exam and couldn’t make it. I picked on Bryan about it, but really she was truly missed. Kim’s so much fun and I’m kind of missing her. She’s been very focused on earning her certification and completing her training to become a fire fighter and EMT in Wellsboro.
My morning started off with a fussy Jonathan and an exhausted me (waking up with him in the night) and then a gift from Warren — a keepsake box, engraved, and a gorgeous necklace with a heart and a diamond in the middle. I don’t know if it is truly a diamond, but I don’t care. It’s beautiful and I was touched Warren got it for me.
In between Jonathan’s bouts of fussiness, I focused on how great these past six months have been. Jonathan has become so much a part of my life I don’t feel complete, somehow, when I’m not with him. Before I had him I had heard people say they didn’t remember what life was like before their son or daughter was born. I was doubtful of this statement until I had my own and now I completely concur. In some ways it feels as if Jonathan has always been a part of my life — and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I made it through most of the day without getting weepy and would have made it the whole way if it wasn’t for — as it always is — my dad. He bought a card, but mom couldn’t find it and he was outside. We were going to leave without it but he ran up to the house to get it. I was already in tears because Jonathan was crying, I had spilled his children’s Motrin all over him because stupid me forgot to put the lid back on and was just feeling like an overall failure. Then I opened the card and read this: “For A Special Daughter with love. A daughter is laughter and good times to share, happiness that grows through the years, memories to treasure always. As I look back on all my favorite memories of little girl giggles and childhood innocence, of family times and special places, of things I might have done differently and those I’d never change . . .as I look back on all the ways you’ve brought your love into my life, I feel so many different emotions, and I know that even though you’re grown now with a family of your own, we’ll always and forever share a special kind of bond. On Mother’s Day and always, I hope you know that time will never change the love and pride I feel for you, and all the happiness my heart holds when I see the beautiful person and mother you’ve become.” Needless to say I was a weepy mess after that. Jonathan cried for 15 minutes into the drive home. After throwing my arms up in frustration first, I took his hand and sang “Jesus Loves You,” to him. He fell asleep and I admired the beautiful child whose made my life worth living.

My birth story

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Jonathan was 6 months old Monday. Six months ago Monday I gave birth to him after 23 1/2 hours of labor. I realized the other day that I had never actually written down my birth story and thought I would take the opportunity to do so now. For anyone reading this — I’ll try not to go into too much detail with the gory stuff.
The due date for Jonathan to be born was Oct. 28, although one of the first due dates I was given was Nov. 10. I was feeling huge, awkward and tired and anxious after Oct. 28 flew by and there was no sign Jonathan was ready to arrive yet. Throughout my pregnancy I was convinced that Jonathan was Grace Elizabeth. They hadn’t been able to tell from the first ultrasound if the baby was a boy or a girl and then they didn’t want to do another one unless there was a problem. So I didn’t know for sure if the baby was a boy or a girl.
It wasn’t until the final two weeks when I continued to see baby boys at parks or blond haired toddlers running through Wal-Mart that I started to wonder if the baby I was carrying was a boy and not the girl I had thought it was. It wasn’t necessarily that I wanted a girl instead of a boy, it was simply that I had a feeling it was a girl — probably because my sister-in-law had four girls already.
On Monday, Nov. 6, Warren and I were scheduled to go visit with the mid-wife to see if I had progressed at all and to talk about a possible induction for later in the week. Warren was hoping to induce after the following day, which was election day. About 6:30 a.m. I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. In a way I felt like I had already gone. The sheet felt wet and I began my bed-leaving-process quicker than usual not sure why I seemed to be leaking. I pulled myself out of bed in the way that had become normal for me: slowly sit up, lean forward and heave myself toward the wall, leaning against it to get my balance and quickly take the pressure off my sciatica before shooting pain caused me to grit my teeth and leaving me wincing with each step to the bathroom.
After I gained my balance I turned, bleary-eyed, toward the bathroom and realized water was running down my legs. I tried to hold it. I figured I must be so tired that my brain wasn’t sending the message to my bladder that it wasn’t time to pee yet. I was standing at the end of the bed, in the middle of the floor when it hit me. This wasn’t urine pooling at my feet. It was happening the way Donna Campbell had described it in the birthing class.
“Warren, I think my water just broke,” I said suddenly.
“Wha..? OK. I’ll go get the car.”
“We have to call the hospital and tell them we’re coming,” I said.
“Right, right…” Warren was already at the bottom of the stairs.
One thing I didn’t remember anyone telling me was that once your water breaks it keeps breaking. On the way to the hospital I had a towel wrapped around me, hoping I didn’t drip all the way to labor and delivery on the ninth floor. Outside the cafeteria of the hospital Warren and I saw Henry Farley, who is the manager there, and gave him a wave. I think he figured out where we were going and we figured the entire Valley would know I was in labor by the end of the minute.
My contractions took their time to start, but once they did — wow. Before I knew it I was having contractions what seemed like every two or three minutes. I lost track of time completely, doing the only thing I could, which was pray through every pain and ask Jesus to help me. Mom and Warren held my hands and stroked my hair and held a damp cloth to my forehead. Carol, my mother-in-law, was also there, offering her support when Warren and mom needed a break. I tried to remember the baby during all this because I had read that labor can also be stressful on him or her. I kept saying “I love you baby.” I also tried to remember to tell Warren I loved him too, mainly because he was always telling people that I’d say “You did this to me! I hate you!” I never wanted to say that. We were in this together after all.
I spent some time in the bath tub with Warren running water on my lower back and mom giving me sips of water to keep me hydrated. I honestly have no idea when I was fully dilated and began to push. All I know was my energy was gone from the excruciating contractions that came every few minutes. Jen, my midwife, who remained extremely calm throughout — even knitting next to the tub at one point, smiling serenely — finally told me she thought I should have some pain medicine to help me rest before the pushing really picked up. I agreed and got the epidural. Afterwards, I felt like I only had about ten minutes of rest before an all new sensation kicked in and the rest time was over. Jen was there the entire time, leaving only to get something to eat and rest a little. Donna Campbell had been there when I first came in on Monday morning and I was still there when she came in for her next shift. I guess she was determined I would have that baby before her shift was over and started coaching me on how to push.
I have no idea, once again, how long I pushed, but I know it was awhile. Mom and Carol held my legs and Warren held my hand as long as he could before he almost passed out from exhaustion and hunger. Jen told me at one point during the pushing stage that it was time to get mad, that this baby had been in there long enough, and I needed to tell him it was time for him to come out. That is what I did. I gritted my teeth and said, “This baby is coming out!” Soon Donna was saying “Oh! Look at that dark hair!” It was the top of the baby’s head crowning.
“She has dark hair like me,” I thought.
When Jonathan finally arrived I didn’t even realize I was done pushing. There was a collective gasp in the room and a “Oh my!” from my mom and it took me a couple of seconds to register in my mind that I didn’t have to push again. Jen held up a gray, purplish blob in front of me and said “What’s that? What’s that?” I said, “I don’t know…” and thought to myself as I looked at a small buldge…is that her umbilical chord? It certainly wasn’t her anything…the baby Jen was holding was my Jonathan Grant. “Oh! Is that my Jonathan Grant?!” I said. I just couldn’t believe it. I had really thought I was having a girl and was just blown away that I had had a little boy.
He was so alert and bright eyed when they laid him on my chest. He seemed so huge to me, sprawled there on my chest. I tried to clean the blood off his head while crying and shaking. Eventually the nurses helped to clean him off more and soon Warren and mom and Carol were holding him and then he was back to me. Mom went into the hall to call my dad and I think the entire world at that point. I heard her say about 15 times from the hall…”It’s a boy. She did great. His name is Jonathan Grant and he was born 5:59 a.m.”
Warren wandered somewhere and Carol went home for a rest. They had all been up with me all night. I looked down and Jonathan was looking at me, studying my face and seemed to be trying to match me with the voice he had been hearing for the past 9 months. I was suddenly struck with fear. Here he was — the little person Warren and I had been talking to and feeling (sometimes waking up with a poke at my belly to make sure he was still alive) and I was terrified. I suddenly realized that I was solely responsible for this little person — me and Warren actually. It scared me and I had a sudden urge to throw Jonathan to the side and run for the hills. There were a couple reasons I couldn’t do that
. One was that I had tore during the pushing stage and had to be sown up. Two was that I was hooked up to IVs (Strep B positive) and three, the main reason, was those blue eyes starring at me. This little one was mine and Warren’s. We had created him together. He was a sign of our love for each other. And together we were stepping into this adventure called parenthood.

Not too fast, Jonathan

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Today Jonathan and I were at a National Day of Prayer service at Muldoon Park in Waverly. Jonathan was pretty tired, it was about time for his nap. But suddenly he started watching a little white-blond haired boy running through the grass, giggling and laughing. He became more awake and soon Jonathan was bouncing in my arms, smiling and laughing himself. His blue eyes sparkled in excitement and I could tell he wished he could run with this young boy. As I watched him I was amused, but at the same time I was struck with sudden fear. I hugged Jonathan close and whisphered in his ear “Not too fast, Jonathan.”
“They grow up so fast” so many people have told me. I know it is true and I am watching it happen. One man says this to me everytime I see him. It is always one of those, His daughter just finished her freshman year in college but just yesterday she was in Kindergarten,” conversations. It makes me want to cry. All this is why I’ve promised myself I will cherish, treasure and hold dear every moment I have with my little Jonathan.