Author: Amelia

The Mercy Tree

~ Amelia ~ 1 Comment

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If I wanted to be funny, I would say that I just couldn’t take it anymore. That it nearly broke me when they eradicated the sugar-free cokes. And then the chocolate covered cinnamon bears disappeared. Next they replaced the entire grill and deep fat fryers with weird non-ovens. I’m no good at packing my lunch and bringing it to work unless I pretend that I’m that homeless man’s mother off of 71 hi-way and pack us both a lunch. So, I would like to blame my resignation on something trivial like the gradual disappearance of non-healthy comfort foods in the hospital cafeteria. A junk food extinction. I don’t “feel better” about it. But that would just be ridiculous. Because everybody knows if you work in the emergency department, you will typically be surrounded by carbs. And more carbs. Carbs of every kind. Pretty much every shift. Especially on Sundays.

The truth is that I’ve been saying goodbye to this place for months. I knew I had to prepare my heart far in advance. I’ve spent too many years here to only give myself a two weeks notice of goodbyes. I’ve walked around differently, a bit more slowly, soaking in the views from the many different hallways and places I’ve worked. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about the last times. The last time I would prepare and support a child or teen as they navigate through a lengthy and humiliating exam. The last time I may temporarily squeeze into the shoes of a mother or a sister or a friend. I’ve held on tightly, so tightly, to the beautiful moments when a mother hugged me after I did something small to help her child or her. I’ve jumped at the opportunity to console a tiny crying one or comfort a sibling or explain that an accident was not his fault. Most times, even when I’ve been hurting or tired, I’ve eagerly grabbed my Mary Poppins bag full of distraction materials to quickly go support a patient getting sutures or an IV.

I’ve absolutely cherished last conversations with coworkers who I love so dearly that it physically hurts to think I won’t see them on a regular basis. Maybe if I could memorize their voices, their laughs, and their faces, it will help me later when I’m missing them.

I’ve prepared myself because I need to walk out of here with my head held high. More proud than sad. I’ve prepared myself because I know it’s best for me and because that’s what I have always done with kids. Hundreds and hundreds of kids. Nearly twelve years worth of kids and families. I’ve blown at least a million bubbles. I’ve held hundreds of nervous, scared or confused hands. I’ve taken a million deep breaths. I’ve said thousands of prayers. I think I’ve heard “Let it Go” at least a trillion times. It’s really, really difficult, almost incomprehensible, to think that soon I won’t navigate these halls with the ease, familiarity and confidence that comes with years and years of experience. This place has been like my second home with all of my beautiful brothers and sisters, my work family.

So, I’m feeling a bit shaky, like a volunteer tree. You know those opportunistic little seedlings? The ones that fall from the strong well-established mature tree and plant themselves in a perfect or not so perfect place in a forest or yard and they begin to grow. That’s me. I have fallen or taken a leap or perhaps the winds of life have pushed me away from my big comfortable home base work tree. It’s all a little scary. And uncertain. Definitely unfamiliar. But change is always new. And hard. And usually a risk. So many new doors to embark upon or windows to slide through.

A month or so ago, a kind-hearted and smart gardening friend of mine came over and walked around my backyard with me and pointed out flowers, and perennials and weeds. She also pointed out my “volunteer trees.” The trees that had grown on their own accord…because well, I didn’t plant them. Some of them were so tiny and cute, little toy trees that could easily be uprooted by my children running or tromping on top of them. Other volunteer trees appeared strong like they had strategically placed themselves in a perfect growing spot. Like they may take some real effort to dig out. So maybe I should just leave them alone and let them keep growing. Plant a tree. Or just be open to one planting itself. And leave it alone.

Let it grow.

That’s what I’m hoping to do. Little volunteer tree me. Grow through the change. Battle the winds. The seasons. The unknowns. And just keep growing. Just keep growing. I will tell myself. I will always think of all of the encouragement and support and love I’ve been filled up with. And I think I will manage alright because I’ve learned from one of the strongest, most resilient and beautiful trees that exist. The Mercy Tree.

Homemade Banana Cake

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Sometimes I bake when I’m sad. Or overwhelmed. It beats vacuuming or unloading the dishwasher. I really can’t stand to watch bananas turn all speckled and brown. Fruit injustice. My rotten bananas commanded me to make homemade banana cake with cream cheese frosting, in memory of Grandma Fritz. She always made some pretty amazing banana bread. Midway through cake making, I realized I didn’t have enough flour so my husband borrowed some from a neighbor. Because I wasn’t giving up easy on this sympathy cake. After I baked it, it cooled only slightly. Then, I slapped the frosting on it in the least pretty way. My youngest taste-tested the frosting. Then, we all fancied up our banana (cup)cake by adding a candle or two because you just don’t get to make enough wishes in life or blow out the candles either. It made it special. Like a celebration.

In lieu of visiting my grandma, every week since she died I have done something meaningful in her memory, something that would make her smile. And me too.

Tonight, before making the cake, I sat on the bench, tired and hurting as I stared out the kitchen window hoping to see the yellow finch. Or maybe a hummingbird swinging by for some dessert. Or maybe I just wanted to hear my grandma’s voice telling me everything is going to be alright. Instead, my sweet son came up and sat next to me. He saw my tears and asked me why I was sad. Ahhh. It was complicated. For me and a seven year old. I told him that I missed Grandma Fritz. He sat for a moment next to me and then asked, “what was your favorite pie that she made again?” I paused and wondered. I held back tears as I talked about her blackberry cobbler and her strawberry rhubarb pie. How can a seven year old be so sensitive and intuitive and say something so healing? He helped me talk about her. I told a few stories. And then he helped me realize she wouldn’t want me to be sitting around staring out the window, waiting on birds and crying when life is happening all around me. So, that’s what prompted us to celebrate by eating banana cake with candles, that my boys blew out several times. We sat outside with the birds chatting and the trees swaying and the mosquitoes bugging too as the late night summer sun set. It was a hidden sunset but the purple, orange and pink clouds ran together beautifully like watercolors do. My grandma would have loved all the colors.

I don’t want my boys to fear someone crying. I want them to reach out to others. Tonight, I am not happy I was missing my grandma but my son’s response stopped my grieving heart in its tracks. I learned that it helps in the most powerful way when a tender sweet soul stops and sits with you. Sees you. Feels your hurt and then asks a simple yet beautiful question. Then waits and listens. My boy unknowingly nudged me to get up off of the bench and love on those in front of my face. Just like my grandma would do. Over some banana cake.

Our Scapeghost

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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We have a ghost in our house. Just hear me out. Or don’t. I’m convinced of it. My husband is not. He thinks I just blame the ghost when things disappear.  Our scape ghost. It tends to steal or hide things at the most inopportune time. I will swear up and down that I placed something right on my nightstand, or chest of drawers or on the kitchen counter. But the stuff moves. Vanishes. It sounds absurd, I understand. I believe that we most likely have a toddler scapeghost.

If you’re curious. I think it followed us from our last house too.

In our last house, it did some crazy things. It would leave showers running for so long that there would be no hot water left. This one time, the keys to my van went missing for months. The good set too, you know the one with the key fob on it? That one. Do you know that it costs hundreds of dollars to replace that? Nice one, Toyota. If you’re getting a mini van, shouldn’t you get a few sets of those? Yes. So, every time it would be raining or snowing or I wouldn’t have an extra hand to manually unlock the door, I cursed the scape ghost. And sometimes myself. And of course, my husband too. It’s sad stuff. First world kind of problems.

Then, one day, my husband was cleaning out the deep freezer. It was one of the last things to finish before moving out of our first house. He reached into the deep freezer and grabbed a box of popsicles and heard a little rattling sound. You’ll never believe what he found in the bottom of the popsicle box. You got it. My car keys.

If you know me, you know it is highly unlikely that I would lose my keys in a popsicle box in the bottom of the deep freezer. It had to be our scape ghost, getting a Popsicle while playing hide and seek with the car keys. It purposely messes with me the most. And makes me feel like I’m a little crazy. But now, when “I” lose something, I do tend to check the deep freezer because “Fool me once, shame on you, scapeghost. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

One of the reasons I strongly believe in our toddler scapeghost is because one night, my husband and I were watching t.v. downstairs and we heard the sound of footsteps upstairs. And, the guinea pigs sounded their motion detecting alarms, “EEP. EEP. EEP.” We went up to investigate and all of our kids were asleep in their beds. Cue the eerie ghost music or maybe the X-files theme song.

If you’re curious as to whether I’ve lost my mind or not, you should know that this is both a fiction and non-fiction blog post. You get to pick and choose which parts you believe to be real and which are not. My husband interupted my writing and told me that I can’t just start blaming stuff on the scapeghost or our kids will do the same. Oh, my homework disappeared. All the lost shoes. The last chocolate chip cookie. You get the gist. But the great thing about my mind is that inside of here, I can blame whoever or whatever I want. Anyways, as soon as I figure out what our scapeghost wants, I’m sure he or she will just leave me alone. That’s what I hear about ghosts anyways.

 

*since writing this, my key fob disappeared again….and reappeared. However, a brand new pair of my four year olds shoes went missing…..driving me crazy. They’re still missing. And yes, I credit the Scapeghost for their disappearance.

Rainbow Moments

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment
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“The good thing about painting is you can “cweate” whatever you want when you’re painting.”

There are so many different types of days, hours, and moments you can have as a parent. Sometimes bouncing around like a pin ball from the fun, exciting and new moments to the mundane, frustrating, and long moments. The fighting. The whining. The lost toys. The broken toys. These are the days that feel more like they lasted a week, with the disastrous looking house to support the feeling. And then you trip over the dumbest toy, yeah, that one, as you head up to bed. The toy that you never liked anyway. Who even plays with it? No one. That one.

Other times, we have these rare, soul-refilling beautiful moments. Rainbow moments. The pause time, hand over your chest, heart pounding, nearly exploding moments where you could just die of pure unprecedented happiness. The moments when you’re sitting there watching your children play, paint, dance, build, laugh, or just get along with each other and you feel like you’re watching the most genuine, perfect, and beautiful actors play in this movie happening right before your eyes. You think, “what did I do? These are my kids? This is my life?” Your eyes fill up, you could cry because you’re so overwhelmed and hyper aware of the rare beauty right there in front of your face. These fragile yet powerful little lives. Close enough for you to touch, so delicate yet so impressionable that you know you will remember these moments forever. And you have to imagine that these are the exact rainbow moments that you will crave someday when you’re older.

When I walked my kids home from school, I told them it was such a gorgeous day that we all had to play outside. I desperately needed to change the guinea pigs’ cage. I put the guinea pigs in a playhouse in the yard and the boys crowded in there with them until that got boring. They asked to build a fort with blankets in their tree house. “Yes, as long as you bring the blankets back inside,” I said. Then, my youngest began to cry and cry over wanting to play with a Spider-Man Lego guy of his brother’s. I lost all sense of patience and smart parenting skills. I kept telling him the same thing that didn’t seem to phase his frustrated tears. His brother came in to ask for a snack and made things better, thankfully.

We played outside as the sun began to set, which is the time of day that I have a love-hate relationship with. One of my boys begged me to get out the paints. I begrudgingly complied. I set up the canvas and the boys began painting. And then it happened. I exhaled and relaxed and watched them. One of my boys said, “The good thing about painting is you can cweate whatever you want when you’re painting.” So true. And despite my hesitancy in getting out the paints, the joy in his paint strokes in his rainbow painting made it all worthwhile. My husband brought Ben Rector music out and everybody started dancing. I sat watching for a few moments. I smiled at their enthusiasm and joy as they all tried new dance moves. Their energy. Their giggles. Their smiles. I had to join them. Afterall, they most likely inherited their goofy dance moves from me.

The crazy thing happened when time seems to pause and stand still, a rainbow moment, after the chaos, the rain, then came the beauty. The promise. The love overflowing. They’re my rainbow boys, constantly paving the way for these moments birthed out of their love and joy for life and the simple things, like dancing on the back porch. Thank God for these beautiful moments. Thank God for the honor, the responsibility and the privilege of being their mother.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Tonight, after we said a long gratefulness bedtime prayer and I heard my boys’ breathing get deep sleep heavy, I cried like a big old baby. There must have been a hundred reasons as I thought about all of the beauty of the day.  That yellow finch playing in the street in that puddle. The ruby throated hummingbird whizzing up to my kitchen window. My boys’ pure endless and exhausting innocence. It’s so damn hard to know if they’re prednisone tears without some sort of litmus paper, but I think tonight, they were the real deal. The kind that flood your face for a reason. Or perhaps a million.

I thought about eating lunch earlier today. “Mama, can I sit on your lap?” My almost five year old boy asked. We had a whole bench to ourselves, but yes. I sat across the table from a man, somehow my husband. A man that loves me in ways that blow my mind. Yet, I don’t always feel the enormous, overpowering sense of gratitude for him because marriage is hard. And distracting. Marriage with jobs, kids, and chronic illness takes hard to another level. But we do the hard together. And it’s not always pretty, but it’s always together. Always.

After school, my boys and I got ice cream. Then, we took a bag full of “World IBD Day” treats i.e. soft toilet paper, bubble gum, coloring books, flowers, smelly soap etc. for the nurses to give out to GI patients that maybe needed a boost. As we walked the halls of Saint Luke’s, hospital memories, many of them painful, suddenly overwhelmed me. Thankfully, the distraction of my boys fighting over who got to push the elevator buttons interupted some of the more difficult memories. The repeated NG placements. The depressing, long days spent laying in that hospital bed. The prayers that I uttered as they moved my fragile, aching infected body after surgery from one part of the hospital to another. I understand why people avoid going back to hospitals or places that trigger some of those vivid sensitive and hard to forget memories.

But I happen to love hospitals, specifically when I’m not a patient. I love the people there. They truly feel like touching heaven sometimes. Tonight, we rode several wrong elevators. We got lost and everybody helped us out. Everybody thanked us for coming. Perhaps, it helps being accompanied by three energetic young boys carrying chocolate chip cookies for the nursing staff. They had a hidden agenda. They eagerly hoped to meet all of the NICU nurses who helped take care of them in their first few weeks of life. On the car ride, they had planned out what they would say, “Hey! Do you remember me?” I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the nurses may not remember them. Seven years later. Little egos need not be deflated too soon.

After our hospital visit, we drove past a fun looking park on our way home, so we stopped. I hoped I could link the hospital visit to the fun playground in their memories and we could do it again next year. On World IBD Day. The boys asked if I would be “the monster” and since I had my running shoes on and I had just left a hospital that I used to long to get out of, I chased my boys around. And around. Because I could. Because I was free. Because I know there are others that want to be recovered and walking, running, and desperately want to feel better and want out of the hospital. I played for them. Maybe one day soon, they will play for somebody else too.

The most meaningful part of the day happened in the van, on our ride home. One of my seven year old boys likes to read bits and pieces of my blog posts. Yesterday, he had seen the title “It’s Not a Shit Bag.” I talked to him about my bag and how it’s hard to truly understand something if you don’t know anybody with it. His seven year old heart knows that the “shit” word is not a kind name. I talked about how we all can say things that might not be intended to be hurtful, we may even be trying to be funny but that our words have the power to really hurt others. Or really help others. I talked to my boys about the power of teaching others and forgiving others who made a mistake and may have said something that hurt us. They talked to me about being a pebble in the water. A sweet school lesson on the ripple effect. I believe that people, for the most part, want to be loving and impact others for good, but sometimes, we just don’t know what that looks like. I’m grateful that we got to have a conversation that truly mattered. On a day that possessed so much beauty.

I wanted to say thank you for all of your kindness and support and love. Today. And most every day. I’m so damn lucky to have all of you.

A Week Later

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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It hit me.

I looked into the mirror as I washed my face and all of the sudden, I felt like I could barely stand up. Tears automatically escaped. I can’t go visit my grandma tomorrow to make things better. She died a week ago. An emotion-filled, crazy, constantly moving week ago.

I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep.

I was short-fused with my husband, my kids and probably the dog today.

The sudden onset of the painful realization that I can’t go visit my grandma a heavy, emotional mess tomorrow and leave feeling better hurts so incredibly much. I knew it would. That’s why I had such a difficult time leaving her, touching her hands one last time. She was one of the few people that understood me and what it means to have an illness. Something forever, chronic, never going away.

I took one of my medicines and cried because life is hard sometimes. And life is harder on some folks than others. Tonight, I feel like one of the ones that just wants a little bit of easy.

I just want to go visit my grandma. I want to hold her hand and hear her sweet voice. I want to sit in the presence with a person whose frail body possessed such a beautiful strength that made it hard to leave. Her “leave-my-door-open” spirit welcomed others in. I want to chase my boys down the hall to her room.

I want one last visit.

Since the morning she died, I keep seeing beauty popping up around me and I know it’s God or her reminding me that I will always carry her love with me. A butterfly played crazily outside my kitchen window tonight. I thought of her. I noticed a woman’s hummingbird tattoo on her ankle while playing with my son. I thought of her. I am grateful to have a million memory triggers. I am grateful for the strength of her love.

I am grateful for all that I have in front of my face, but I wish I still had her too.

Thanks, Prednisone

~ Amelia ~ 4 Comments

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Dear Prednisone,

I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for you helping me out with my gut situation, but you’re really starting to piss me off. I can’t focus on anything I want to, similar to a two year old unleashed in the grocery store. And thank you for making me obsess about things that have not bothered me for years. I will most likely get to that wallpaper and bathroom demolition shortly. Perhaps on one of these nights when everyone is sleeping. But I’m not.

Also, thank you for the new onset of emotional maturity ranging anywhere between an angry hormonal teen to a blubbering newborn baby. You make me feel like I’m losing my ever loving mind. You’ve taken my personality hostage and I can’t find it because I’m so hyper focused on cleaning the damn shower. Or getting those clothes to City Union Mission. You’re worse than caffeine and albuterol mixed. That’s right. You’re like ten espresso shots too many.

Thank you for inspiring all sorts of creative endeavors inside my head, but not donating to me the attention span necessary to accomplish any of them. Prednisone tshirts, awareness bracelets, and stationary? Really, Prednisone. How thoughtful.

I would rather go eat a house or save the world because that’s what you make me feel like I can do. However, if I was forced to pay attention or sit still to receive the directions on how to eat a house or save the world, I couldn’t do it. I can’t quite remember what it felt like to be two years old, so thank you for this stroll down memory lane. Unfortunately, I’m in a grown ass woman’s body, so I should probably get to making my “Prednisone Awareness” bracelet. So others will know. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Well, it’s actually you, Prednisone.

I really hate you.

You suck.

I have to go do something else now. For the next minute. Until I have to go do something else again for the next minute.

Please treat my personality nicely while you hold her hostage. Chocolate helps.

Sincerely,

Amelia

Ninety Four Years

~ Amelia ~ 5 Comments

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I sat there and watched the nurse wrap your swollen pink fluid-filled legs. And I hurt for you. You did what you’ve always done. You handled pain and aging and dependence on others in the most graceful way. You conversed with us, you smiled, and you playfully asked if we would like to sign your new “casts.” And I had to turn away after I told you that everybody loves you and wants to be around you. I didn’t want you to see my eyes fill up with tears. Because I already miss you. You said, like you always do, “those boys sure love their mama” as one of them tried to force his way onto my lap.

You’re so selfless and brave and graceful as you struggle to lift your coffee to your mouth. You always appreciate me coming and you act like a 99 cent McDonalds coffee or a few sips of Coca Cola are the kindest gifts. And selfishly, I want you to be here forever. Encouraging us, watching my boys grow, and reminding me in the most subtle unintentional ways of the amazing daily gifts right in front of my face.

I love to listen to you tell stories of the farm or the boy who had a crush on you in highschool. Or the time your big sister, Zella, saved you from drowning because you couldn’t swim. I want to hear stories of my mom growing up in your house. I want to tell you how much I love you. How I know it had to hurt to leave the house you lived in for 59 1/2 years. I want to tell you how I loved sitting at the kitchen counter as a child watching you make fried pies and how I know that you always saw me eat more than my fair share. More than my siblings. I want you to know that I purposely washed that perm you gave me out of my hair because I looked like a poodle. Sorry for lying and saying it was an accident. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You always think I look beautiful. I want you to know that you make the best everything, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, cobbler, sugar cookies and pies to name a few. I want you to know how much I am going to miss our visits. I don’t think I can tell you all of this because I would cry. And I don’t know if I could stop. I don’t want you to hurt for me. You’ve taken on the weight of the world for the past ninety four years. And you need to know that you deserve a break. You deserve Heaven.

I want you to know that we will be okay without you. We will miss you terribly. You should know that you have inspired us all. Your humble, grace-filled beauty lives on in every single one of us. We will continue to make you proud. We have learned about living life and loving others from the best. You are one of the most gentle, kind-hearted, selfless, unbelievably strong, smart and brave women to ever walk this earth. Thank you, Grandma, for all that you are, for all that you’ve sacrificed, for living so humbly and aging so beautifully. Thank you for leaving an impression on every person who has truly known you. We are the lucky ones.

I love you, Grandma.

And as you always tell me, “I know you do, Amelia. And I love you.”

Costco Nap

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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As I carried my big boy around Costco and pushed the empty cart, I mentally prepared myself for somebody to make a comment about him being too big for me to carry around. Because sadly, it’s happened many times before.  I awkwardly reached for a pineapple and some mangoes and then I felt his weight change. He got heavier. I knew he had fallen asleep but I couldn’t see his face. I started to notice people kindly waiting for me to push my shopping cart past or smiling as they saw my fast-asleep long-legged four year old boy.

On a Monday, like today, I might respond to someone’s unsolicited comment by saying, “he’s been missing me at work all weekend and this is how I know it…he asked for me to hold him.” I know that I don’t need to provide an explanation to anybody, much less a complete stranger, of why I carry my child who is no longer a baby, who has working legs. I carry him most Tuesday through Fridays, too. I carry him because he politely asks me (most times) in the sweetest voice, “Mama, could you hold me?” He used to demand, “hold you, me.” I carry him because today, I’m strong enough to carry him. I carry him because I love him and he loves me. Because I love to hold him and he loves for me to hold him. I carry him because I held several babies and toddlers at work this weekend and it made me miss my own kids that aren’t babies or toddlers anymore. Those are a few of the reasons why I do it.

And if you truly wanted an ear full, I would tell you that I believe that too many parents want their kids to grow up. Too fast. They want them to do too much before they’re ready or big enough, physically or emotionally. I would tell you that growing up has it’s limited perks and that once you leave childhood, early or later, it’s hard to go back. And it’s hard to make up for lost time as a parent. Practically impossible. I would tell you that I will never regret holding my kids longer or carrying them asleep on my shoulder, as I awkwardly shop for groceries. Honestly, there’s a pretty selfish reason too. I don’t think they will ask me to carry them much longer. It feels pretty good to be important, needed and loved on by these incredibly beautiful children. And I don’t worry that my teenage sons will ask to be held so they can take a nap on my shoulder on a future Costco run. I do worry that they may be lifting more and more food into my cart. That they will help unload.

When I pushed my cart to the checkout line, a woman behind me saw me hold my big sleeping child wrapped around my hips the best that I could manage him while unloading my groceries. She thoughtfully asked me how she could help me. I nearly cried when she said, “I remember those days.” Because it’s Monday and I saw the look in her eyes. And she didn’t tell me he was to big to carry around. She got it. She understood. And that meant the world to me, especially on a Monday.

Green Eyes

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Someday you will not be near me. Someday you will cry and I will not be there to hear you, to see your face turn splotchy or watch as your tears slide down your cheeks. I will not be there to witness your gigantic bright brown eyes as they turn to the beautiful mossy green when they fill with the hurt, frustration, sadness or painful tears that change them. I won’t be close enough to witness your enormous eyelashes cling together from sopping up a tear here or there as you blink, plead through labored breaths and say, “I don’t want to be “it.” Or “Why do I always have to be thiwd(third)?”

This pains me to think about because as much as I hate to see you cry, I always want to be there for you. Always, as in forever. Like I have always been with you. And you have always been with me. Through everything. I want to hold you, carry you, hug you and look you in the eye and help you understand life’s frustrations, both the big hard-to-comprehend ones and the tiny, yet completely unfair ones.

I never realized that sadness could be so beautiful until I looked into your eyes that day. You came running over, then stood in front of me with your body slouched over, crying with your head pressed up against that giant tree. You looked so small. Again. The sun must have hit your face perfectly. And that’s when I saw your big tears transform the color of your eyes. They did the beautiful color changing trick, in a dramatic way, a way that I had never seen before. I think I will hold that picture of you in my heart forever. Your dark brown eyes turned green. See-through-green, like the moss growing above the tree trunk that cradled your head, only a million times more beautiful. I knew your brown eyes always had green in them, like mine, but with your head rested up against that tree, I stood trying to comfort you mesmerized.

You hate when your brothers run after only you and tag you in the game of “hide and seek.” You hate to be “it.” You’re a little scared to count by yourself. It seems unfair. Because they’re older, taller and quicker than you right now. Because you are third. Please don’t hurry, slow down. Don’t grow up so fast, my sweet youngest boy.

Yesterday, in the car, you asked me,

“Why did I gwow up third?”

I answered, “You were in my belly third.”

Then you added in your precious, figuring out-the-world voice, “Because it was so warm in there and I wanted to stay in there.”

It was too precious to correct you. You are my third child. My third son. You possess so many breathtakingly beautiful characteristics that impact the world for good. I hope one day when you cry without me there that you will always remember how important you are and that you will always, always carry my love with you in those beautiful brown eyes. And in the green eyes too. But most importantly, stored up inside that tiny mighty heart of yours.