Forward

It’s been almost three months since our little Isaac William made his way into the world, three months since we first fell in love with him, three months since we first saw his different left hand.

I’ve been a little (ha ha) emotional. It’s a combination of things: postpartum hormones plus sleep deprivation, adjusting to my new daily reality—life with a kindergartener, a preschooler, a toddler, and a newborn—while wrapping my brain around Isaac’s difference and what it might mean for his future. I’ve had my share of head-on-the-table moments, usually with a child or two crying nearby.

But last week Adam came home from work and verbalized something that’s been building up in me too. “I’m ready to be happy,” he said.

It’s been okay, I think, to give ourselves a little grace. It’s been okay to let the feelings come—to admit our exhaustion and stress and even our waves of sadness over Isaac’s hand. But lately it feels like God’s been nudging us forward in his quiet, gentle way. When I open my Bible I hear Jesus reminding me he came to take away my heaviness and replace it with a garment of praise.

Sometimes one of my kiddos will end up with hurt feelings or a skinned knee and there will be tears. So then we have cuddles and maybe a Band-aid. We talk it all through. And then it’s time to take a few deep breaths and throw out that wadded up Kleenex. It’s time, maybe, to eat a popsicle on the back porch and thank God for the green grass and the Florida sunshine.

Adam and I recently read Jim Abbot’s book Imperfect: An Improbable Life. It’s the story of Abbot’s experience growing up in the sixties without a right hand. When he was five years old, his young parents took the advice of his doctors, and dropped him off at a children’s hospital specializing in limb differences. He entered a program alongside kids without arms and legs, and waited anxiously for his parents to visit on weekends. One Saturday his dad had an epiphany: his son didn’t need “expert” care. He needed to be at home with his parents, treated the same as his younger brother. “We don’t have a problem,” he said that day. “We’ve got a blip on the screen. We can handle this.” Abbot went home, fell in love with baseball, and went on to become a major league pitcher, even throwing a no-hitter for the Yankees.

We’ve had a blip in our family too. We’ve cried some and worried some over Isaac’s different hand. It’s been hard. But it’s starting to be less hard.

I mean, come on. Look at him. How could we not be happy when we wake up to that face? How could we not be in love with every single bit of our Isaac including those sweet little fingers? Lately I find myself kissing them more and feeling oh so proud when he reaches for a rattle with them.

Over the past few months I’ve had many conversations about Isaac. Someone will ask about his hand and I’m suddenly pouring out my heart—way more than I intended, a shaky stream of words and sometimes tears. And over and over the same thing has happened. That dear friend has smiled and reached out for Isaac’s hand and said something like, “Don’t you worry, mama. He’s going to be just fine.” And I would always think, “he is?” and then, “can you say that again?” But lately it’s been easier to just agree with them.

We still have hard things in our family, painful burdens we pray for daily. We still have tantrums and whining, sleepless nights and a sticky floor. But those things make a baby’s laughter that much better. At some point down the road, Isaac will have his own emotions about his hand, and we’ll do our best to enter those with him. But for now, we have a smiley baby with delicious, chunky legs and fluffy hair. The days are getting longer and warmer. Pretty soon we’ll be dragging out the kiddie pool and planning our summer trip north to see my family. Most of them haven’t met Isaac yet, and I can’t wait to show him off.