I don't know how to explain what it was like becoming a mom. Its like someone flips on a light switch and illuminates a room that has always been in your house but you never knew was there. From the very first day, with all of the trauma and challenges that it brought to us, I knew deep in my soul that we were born for this, me and you, and this was only the beginning of our story.
On that day an army began to rise up in your name. You were this amazing little tiny person who was hooked to all of these machines taking nice long naps and minding your own business and all the while the world was turning upside down for you. Oh Jack, if you only knew.
People from all over the world, more people than I could ever count or try to recall began to pray for you. People lifted us up and placed us at the feet of the Father and in that moment, Daddy and I begged God to let us keep you. And He did.
When we took you home and you began to grow, every single breath you took was terrifying and wonderful to me. I never took my eyes off of you during those first few months. I don't know that Daddy and me even remembered what sleep felt like. But we didn't mind. You had shifted our world and where the sun and the moon used to be, now there was only you. You slept in a cradle beside my bed and at night, when you would finally fall asleep I would kneel in the floor between my bed and yours, slide my hand between the little bars on your cradle, grab your tiny little foot and pray over you. I prayed for God to make you better. To bring you through the surgery that was looming in the not-so-distant future. To heal you and give you a life after all of this. I prayed that God would let us keep you longer.
On the day of your first cath, we heard more bad news. "Worse than we thought." "Surgery sooner than we thought." "Not sure how to fix the problem." They were words we didn't even begin to know how to process. But we did what we knew how to do best. We prayed and we took you home and we waited.
On May 16, 2012 me and Daddy did the hardest thing we had ever had to do. We handed you to a group of strangers knowing that they were going to stop your heart.
All your life people have said to me, "I don't know how you do it." And the truth is bud, I don't know either. God saw our need and granted us the strength and grace to survive those difficult days. And that's exactly what we did. We survived. We sat in two chairs that were pulled up next to your bed in that open cardiac intensive care unit for a solid month praying that God would let us keep you longer. And your army continued to grow. As you got sicker, people from every corner of the earth poured love into our family and we saw God's mercy and grace in the most real and tangible way that we ever possibly could. Because, truth be told Jack, you belong to Him. You always have. But He allowed us to keep you here because He sent you here for a reason. You've got mountains to move kid and you hadn't even gotten started yet.
A little over a month later, beyond every doctor's wildest expectation, we put you in your carseat and drove you home.
That's when time really started moving beneath our feet. As you got better and grew, you came off of oxygen and medications one at a time until you were a seemingly perfectly normal and healthy growing kid. And you grew so FAST.
In the years between the Glenn and the Fontan we got to feel normal for the first time. We celebrated milestones and cheered our hearts out for you at t-ball games. I put bandaids on boo boos and bargained with you to eat your vegetables and let me cut your fingernails. Your love for super heroes and Star Wars grew, and then eventually, so did my tummy. There wasn't one single moment where you weren't over-the-moon excited to meet your baby brother. And H rocked our world all over again! Your attachment to Harrison was immediate. You were his protector and defender. You wanted to feed him and help bathe him. You never wanted to miss a second with him. And watching you two together has been the greatest joy of my life. Most days I feel like my heart can't even contain the love I have for you guys. And oh how thankful I am that God let us keep you.
Fontan day (May 26, 2016) was quite different for me from the Glenn. This time you weren't a new baby. You were a person. You had this big personality and this extraordinary heart. And somehow, handing you over this time was even harder. We talked to you so much in the days and weeks leading up to the Fontan. You understood as much as your sweet little mind could comprehend. I honestly think you were much more ready than I was. But again, we did what we had to do. And God filled in all of our empty spaces. And, again, we all survived. You moved through your recovery like a true super hero and I watched you in total awe of your spirit. You were the most brave person I had ever met. We had many setbacks again but this time you took every single day like a champion and it gave us the courage and strength to press on. And then finally, we pulled you in that little red wagon out to the car, put you in your carseat and drove you home. And we thanked God for again allowing us to keep you.
The days, months, and years of your little life are a whirlwind in my memory. Most days I can't fathom how quickly the time has passed. I feel like I should still be rocking you to sleep. But Jack, let me tell you this... Not one of those days passed that I didn't treasure and thank God for the opportunity to be your mom. Everyday I tell you to please stop growing. I wish I could freeze time and keep you little. You're so perfect right now. 5 and a half is my absolute favorite age so far. Your little personality is bigger than ever. You love super heroes and Star Wars and Disney World. You love to swim and turn flips and sing Trolls songs. You love to help people and are always looking out for Harrison. Your a typical rough-and-tumble little boy with the biggest and sweetest heart of anyone I've ever known. You love fiercely and deeply and without hesitation. You believe the whole world is good and you truly believe with mountain-moving faith in the power of prayer.
I can't believe that you are about to go to kindergarten. In so many ways I'm terrified that you're not ready. But I think the reality is that I'm the one who isn't ready. I'm not ready for you to be big enough to go to school but also I'm not ready for the changes that I know are going to come along with it. I've treasured the years of your wide-eyed innocence and letting that go is almost more than I can bare. The world is a big, scary place and I have given all of my energy these past 5 and a half years to shielding your eyes and protecting you from it. But now its time for you to go into the world. And it is my greatest prayer that God will grant you grace in your moments of growth and maintain the innocence that is in your heart. I won't be able to text your teacher 10 times a day to check on you. I won't be there to wipe every tear and hold you when your feelings get hurt. I won't be there to celebrate every small victory. But in my heart, I know that you are ready for this. You are stronger and braver than I've ever thought about being. You make friends with every person you meet and you make the most out of every situation. You won't mind that I'm not there. In fact, I bet you'll be pushing me out the door when I drop you off each day. And you'll go in there and grow and learn new things and make new friends. And the minute the bell rings and you put your little backpack over your shoulders and walk out the door, I'll be waiting for you. Always ready to hear every detail of the new things you learned and the dragons you and your friends slayed on the playground. And even though I know there will come a day when you don't run out and jump into my arms, I'm going to hang on tight and soak up the moment were in while you still do.
