We found out that we were
having your little brother
just a few months after
you turned one.
Your sparkling personality
was just starting to emerge.
I worried about you;
your birthdays would be so
close—
and near Christmas, to
boot!
“There are worse things
than a bad birthday,” I thought,
but I hoped that you two
would at least have your own special days…
I worried about you
the middle child of three
boys,
afraid that you’d be lost
in the shuffle
as a toddler
as a schoolchild
as an adolescent
as a man.
But as we neared your 2nd
birthday,
I didn’t worry as much
about you…
You, so feisty,
who draws everyone in
with your glimmering blue
eyes
and joyful grin.
You, so smart,
who soaks in stories when
I read them to you,
and stares at me intently when
I sing a new song to you,
saying “Again!”
each time I finish,
and silently, almost
imperceptibly mouthing the lyrics with me
as you learn them.
You, so confident and
self-assured,
who announces, “I’m
HERE!!!” when we get to daycare,
who doesn’t look back when
you run off to be with the big neighborhood kids
and who couldn’t care less
about rules,
knowing that you can just
smile
and practically make me
feel happy for you
for getting away with whatever
mischief you cooked up.
When your baby brother
came,
you loved him and were
happy to have him,
but after remarking about
his cute little toes
and telling me that he
needed milk,
you turned back to your
trucks, unaffected.
You were never an only child
and you went to daycare at
a young age;
you knew the drill.
Whenever anyone asked me
how you were adjusting to the new baby
I flippantly waved my hand
and explained how fine
you were with everything about life.
“I don’t worry about him,”
I laughed.
But that fact—the fact that I didn’t worry about you—concerned me.
Would I always feel that
way?
Even though I didn’t worry,
you certainly gave me
cause to:
breaking rules,
charming yourself out of
consequences,
pushing out into the world
more than you pushed into
my arms.
Your cool, confident air
made you less demanding of
my worried attention.
But then—you changed a
little.
You started to protest
more when we left you at daycare.
Your responses became less
verbal
with nonsensical yells of “Baaaa!”
or “NnnnnnnAAA!” or “MMM-mmm…”
You became your most
challenging whenever I nursed your brother—
running away from me at
the playground
or announcing that you
were going to carry not one but two
blankets
down the slippery wooden
stairs,
knowing full well that I
would not remain sitting in the rocker and watch such risky behavior.
You found your ways to let
me know that you needed me, too.
So I let the baby fuss
longer so I could finish a story with you.
I encouraged your father to
relearn how to give a squirmy infant a bath
so I could say prayers with
you and put you to bed.
I made your older brother hush
for a moment so you could answer some
of my questions, too.
I left the baby at home
with Dad and a bottle so I could take you to church with me,
where I held you in my
arms while you pointed at a stained glass window and yelled “There’s Jesus!”
I delighted in pointing
out the different symbols to you
and sang the pleasant
hymns in your ear,
just as I had for your
brother when he was your age.
Little One—
always make me worry.
Stay close enough to me
and speak enough to me
so that I notice a
difference
when you have trouble
adjusting,
or can’t find the words to
express your anxieties,
or are looking for a way
to escape your problems,
or consider doing
something risky to get attention.
I promise to notice, my
Love.
I promise to notice any
change,
subtle though it may be,
because you are my baby
my boy
my precious Christmas gift
and I promise to see when
you need me.
Please make me worry, my
darling child.
Always
make me worry.
