My title is "Homemaker Exposed." Here is my maximum exposure, a shame-filled truth wherein I hope I am not alone:
I tried not to love him.
When my son was born, I realized that the expression "such a miracle" is not trite as I had believed, but rather true in biblical proportions. Part me, part Ryan, part God and His creation, my son is most deeply a miracle. But he is separate from me. I cannot completely protect him. I cannot completely heal him. He is left in God's hands, and I am left to recognize my own mortality, my own vulnerability. And it scared me. It still does.
I had resolved to protect myself from these fears. How? Well, I had pondered this for years prior to my son, and I had determined to "hedge" my losses should I endure one. Translation: I used to believe that the more children I had, the more bearable a loss, illness, or incapacity of a single child would be. I thought I could intellectualize and ration my love. I was wrong.
Although my son is healthy, and although I do not know how many more children my body can bare, my son's first year has taught me this:
Having a child is giving myself to God, losing my sense of power. In return, God gives me an appreciation for the daily mundanes that I have never before felt. God shares Himself in a way I have never before understood. And I lose my sense of "I."
Happy birthday my son, and thank you.
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