Freddy

Eleven years ago tonight I was sitting in the leather recliner across from my mom while Jake was fast asleep in his big boy bed. I was two weeks away from my due date and feeling every ounce of baby pushing against my insides, begging for respite from the strain. We had just moved into our new house, and because it was new construction, we hadn't had the chance to get window coverings up yet. Hot and uncomfortable, I climbed into bed and felt my water break. Like a whale in a fishbowl, I tore around the house looking for the phone to tell Jason that my water broke, and when he got home in the 5.3 seconds it took him to drive home from Eric's house, we took off for the hospital. Freddy was born a short time thereafter, and our lives then changed forever.

He was a quiet baby. Huge, but quiet. He lay there, eyes wide and watery, his lips plump, cradling the light of the heat lamps. Back in my arms, he remained as peaceful as ever, blinking up at me with expectation and knowing. There's just some things we know like gravity and a parent's love, and Freddy knew it that morning, just as sure as he knows it now in his bed, eleven years later.

When I think about Freddy, my mind and heart fill with constancy. Steadiness. Strength. Quiet sensitivity. Empathy. The gentle leader.

He won't fight to be heard. But when he speaks, we better listen. Freddy knows how to love. He makes mistakes, and he's made some big ones, ohhhh some big ones. But he knows, and his heart breaks for them. His gentle presence moves mountains. His very first word was for my dad: "Rumpah" (Grandpa). He'd spot my dad from a mile away and his raspy little voice demanded my father's arms. He'd point at him, nod, and blink in assertive expectation, "Rumpah." And there, Vern would melt. Every time.

My life is full of twists and turns, of endings and new beginnings but my children will always be my light. Eyes wide and watery, lips plump and cradling the light of the heat lamps, I'm right here, arms open.