Confessions of a human nurse
To my son: One thing I should make clear from the start is, you are an experiment and the thoughts on this page in no way negate that. Whatever I may have learned so far is a drop in the ocean of what I have left to learn. But it’s a start. Calling you an experiment is not exactly the classic, loving, parental response, but it is the truth. I have never been a parent before and everything with you is new. Your dad and I survived being experiments so there’s hope for you as well. No doubt, in about thirteen years you will clarify my mistakes at length, but till then, I will do my best to figure out each step as we go. You are further an experiment because while there is so much I can show and teach you, it will be in a world miles away from the one I knew as a kid. Due to security issues and time, that place is no longer the one I knew either and not one I can safely show you. I don’t regret that, but that does mean you and I are going to be creating your childhood together from scratch. For better or worse, there are many things from mine that simply cannot be duplicated for you. I can’t send you down the road with your dad to eat at a food stand or hole-in-the-wall restaurant that would make an inspector faint. I can’t send you outside to explore a compound on your own for hours. I can’t show you a dust cloud so thick it feels like winter and you can write your name on your dresser every morning. I can’t show you an open air market place and spend an hour hunting for the right flip flops. Flip flops don’t even mean the same thing here, in style or necessity. So many memories that cannot be relived with you. So many things that we must figure out in a new context. You are an experiment that I prayed for and then prepared never to see happen (it’s a knack adults acquire. Not recommended). Honestly, you as a reality is only just starting to register (no need to kick harder. You have made your opinion on the issue perfectly clear). It is simply a wonder I actually get the honor of raising you. And flooring to consider my own audacity in ever thinking I could. You are not the typical miracle child, not a surprise, no long wait, but that is the only term I have for you (yes, even when you dig your heel into my liver). In the face of all this, it would seem I should be a nervous wreck, between my own ignorance and the challenges of getting you here and raising you. For good or ill, that is not the case. Where I was raised, after you arrived, I would have strapped you to my back and done whatever needed to be done for the rest of life. Life never stops and you arriving is part of it (sorry to burst your bubble. You are special, but life will not stop even for you). Life right now is a special kind of crazy, but you are still here and coming. You are already part of my life (seriously, you do not need to kick any harder to convince me). You are our miracle experiment and you are along for the ride with us, come what may for however long God gives us together. So, I’ll strap you on (try to leave my liver alone from the outside. I actually need that) and on we will go. Because that, my son, is life as God has given it and we are not going to pretend otherwise. So, my dear little experiment, let’s do this.
1 Comment
Gail Hill
4/9/2020 12:35:57 pm
That was so sweet, Elizabeth. I am excited for you all and the arrival of your son. I have forgotten his due date. Wish I lived closer to be a noni to him occassionally. I do so love babies!!! I know your parents and sisters are so excited. Love you.
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