both of us

It is completely quiet and dark in my house this morning.  Around seven in the morning, we slip through the apartment to the living room where Aunt Liv sleeps.  She started, a few weeks ago, telling me to bring Judah to her in the mornings so I could get some sleep.  But I get enough sleep.

So I sit on the couch with breakfast and coffee.  Afraid to make a noise because the quiet, rainy, peacefulness of this morning might be broken.  And Liv lays on the air mattress, squirmy and fidgeting in her sleep.  With my son laying in the crook of her arm.  He has fixed so many things.

I am overwhelmed this morning with what this next week will bring.  I want to cry.  I want to be strong.  But I want the tears more.  I wait at night.  Hoping to hear the chime of a car locking automatically.  Heavy footsteps and the front door resist, just so much, before opening.

I wait on this, because today it feels like my only chance.  It feels like my only chance at any sort of normalcy.  As if, without intention, we became a family.  And then the rug was pulled out from under my feet.  In my vulnerability, I let my guard down.  Mistakenly, I let myself hope.

People say horrible things.  People say unwise things.  People give empty, insensitive, unhelpful advice.  And my heart is weary from hearing it.  Everyone has the answers.  Everyone knows how to fix this.  Everyone, apparently, but me.

I want to just and only enjoy my son.  He is a morning person, this small boy.  Over the past eighteen days, I have learned how precious mornings are with him.  He is sweet, cuddly, wide-eyed.  He smells like Johnson's and what's left of nighttime.

And I don't know if it is my stress, or his stress, but when all the guests leave and we are waiting to see what the evening will hold, our nights gain tension.  The 8 o'clock hour is painful for both of us.  I am lonely.  He is hungry, tired, cold... things I can fix, but only one at a time.  Nighttime, I remember.

I remember we are doing this alone.  The part of the day when a daddy is supposed to come home and we are supposed to share dinner.  I am supposed to tell about our day and listen to adult voices and sink back into someone who is stronger than myself.

And you will tell me I don't need him.  You will mistakenly tell me Judah does not need him.  You will tell me there are no "supposed to"s and I will create my own sense of normalcy.  You will remind me I am not the first to do it this way, and technically I am not "doing this alone".

I will smile then, and nod just enough so you think I heard.  Or better yet, so you think I agree.  And I will remind myself silently not to bring this up with you again.  My list is forever long.  My list of people who do not understand, and thankfully may never have to.

Judah's umbilical cord fell off yesterday.  17 days old, he now has this adorable belly button.  And we can take real baths.  Last night, we tried.  He screamed, louder than he's ever screamed before.  I picked him up, wet and naked and wrinkly, and he buried his face in my neck and immediately stopped.

I am still waiting on him to smile.  He will grin, almost impishly in his sleep sometimes.  Gummy, all lips and crinkly, squeezed-shut eyes.  But when he is awake, he is the most serious of boys.  His eyes, I saw yesterday, are a nameless color.  Full of personality.  But still no smiles.

His brow furrows.  Wrinkles.  He snarls his lip and opens his mouth wide.  But no smile yet.  Just serious, dark, thoughtful Judah.  This does not surprise me.  Except when I take a moment to think about how early character develops.  How much he is like me, and yet all his own already.

These are things my family notices.  This boy is so loved, so cherished already.  The wisdom, already whispered in his ear, is a lifetime's worth.  The prayers prayed over him are ones full of knowing and anticipation of the life ahead of him.

I feel selfish even wanting more for us.  But I know the wanting comes from a place of fear.  Comes from a place of doubt.  Selfish is the word, because I have no doubt in my mind someone will come along who will love him.  Who will love Judah and care for him.

What I don't know, is if anyone will ever love me.

A thousand words of rejection swirl in between my ears when everything gets quiet.  Questioning my ability as a mother, most deeply.  Echoing deep-seated, ancient fears of inadequacy and unattractiveness.  A loneliness so bitter and old.

This morning, I sit here looking at Liv and Judah while they sleep.  Her, so fidgety.  He has sunk, settled, deep in sleep.  I can just see his ear, over Liv's curled shoulder.  The down on his head, and the steady rise and fall of both of them as they breath through sleep.

And I count on the spirit this morning to pray the words I can't seem to form myself.  Daily, I write a letter in my head to my son.  My son who will grow up one day and have lots of questions I may never be able to answer.  Who may be angry at me for choices I've made, or confused by the outcome.

I have a journal somewhere.  The last entry in it was the day I found out I was pregnant.  I can't write with a pen fast enough for the words coming out of me.  So this space, this space ends up my journal. My place for most irreverent prayers.  For holy arguments.  And child-like petitions.

I cannot even get the words out.  About how guilty I feel for not being diligent in prayer the past few weeks.  How I have no evidence of the words I've prayed, or the milestones already came and went.  I am so afraid of being a bad mother.  With too much on her plate.  Who is not big and strong enough to be both parents.  Who is the one to blame for there being no daddy around.  I am afraid of the day he asks.  I am afraid of the day he wants to learn how to play basketball.  When he learns what Father's Day is. When he needs someone bigger, stronger, than himself to look up to.  When he needs to shave his face.  When he identifies himself as coming from a different culture, a different family, than that of his cousins.  Will I be enough?  Will he resent me for shutting doors?  My heart wants this to never be an issue.  I hold my breath, looking at our life, and wonder if maybe... just maybe... You could send someone to fill that void.  Someone who will not leave.  Someone bigger, stronger than both of us.  Who will love us like You do.  In a tangible, meaningful way.  Both of us.  They say we don't need it.  But You know that isn't true.  Until then... help me be enough.  Protect him.  Let him love me, know me.  My face and my heartbeat and my voice.  And help me not miss a single moment.  Not a single moment to love, cherish, teach, learn.  To protect and hold close this gift of mine.