He makes delighted sounds when he burps. The first place he crawls when set free is into the bathroom, towards the plunger. (Or at least, so we thought, until that time he snuck in there and we didn’t catch him until he was playing with the toilet brush…)
He eats magazines (always the ones with guns or furniture in them, of course).
And the latest quote from his daddy is, “Daniel, don’t eat the vacuum.”
Meanwhile, in another part of the house…er, castle…there’s a double wedding taking place.
Dear Ru,
Some days, I think your brain runs circles around mine. Sometimes, I’m laughing as I try to keep up. But sometimes, I’m humbled as I hear what you want to be when you grow up.
Here are some of your quotables from the past few months.
“I want to grow up to be a farm girl.”
“Mom, I have to grow up to have a breakable plate and a breakable bowl, too. Because I have to grow up to be just like you.”
“I want to grow up to be a momma to do great things for God, too, like doing dishes and planting things and…”
“I like to not pick up. I just like to have a mess all the time. Because a mess is my favorite to have.”
“I really like Frosty a lot ‘cause he talks a lot better than our snowman.”
Of your shadow:
”I can see myself in the floor.”
“Mom, may I pick this and blow it?” you asked. And how could I say no. I just hesitated to tell your daddy that more dandelion seeds just got spread in our alfalfa field…
“After Mother’s Day is it going to be Father’s night?”
“When was I married? Who will I marry? When I grow up, I’m going to get a ring like Mommy’s.”
And, your latest conversation starter:
“Turtles like lettuce. Let’s talk about turtles and lettuce for a while.”Finally, a peek into Grandpa’s favorite drink. You informed Aunt Jessica, “Mary’s drinking water. Water is her friend.” “Really?” Aunt Jess asked. You replied: “Yeah. But coffee is Grandpa’s friend.”
Oh, Ru. You’ll get us all into trouble yet. But we love you. Thanks for keeping us on our toes. Not to mention keeping the conversation interesting!
Love,
your mommy
Dear Mary Kate,
Only you…
Just a few of the many reasons we love you. 
Always,
your mommy
Dear Daniel,
Wasn’t it just a few days ago that I glanced at the clock in the early hours of the morning and realized it was the 14th of the month, and thus you were 2 months old? How can tomorrow already mark you turning 3 months old? It’s been quite the 3 months, little man. Which I suppose gives Mommy an excuse for just finally finishing the story of your birth. I mean, after all, we have already had another hospital stay with you since then! But here I am, finally, on the eve of your 3-month-birthday, going back through the details of the day of your birth one more time… (Laughing as I do, because you are my son, and I’m sure I’m writing this more for your future wife than for you because what boy wants to read his own birth story, at least before he has kids of his own?!)
The thing is, the story of your birth day doesn’t start with April 14th—no, it starts much earlier, when Mommy first started having signs of toxemia again. So in order to show all the ways God took care of you, and how many prayers He answered, I want to share parts of the emails I sent to family and friends in the weeks leading up to your birth… You can see how anxious we were for your safe arrival—and how many people were praying for you!
At my appointment Thursday morning (March 31), I had slightly elevated blood pressure (122/80—my normal is 110/65 at most), a trace of protein, and some swelling. (Though I’d only gained 2 pounds in the previous 2 weeks, a huge improvement from what I gained—apparently in water retention—during the 3 weeks of travel.) Baby’s head is definitely all the way down, but I wasn’t even a centimeter dilated. I mentioned to the doctor that my family had appointments and such through the 19th of April, and she said, “There is no way it’s going to wait that long.” Ohhhhhhhkay…!
Friday, June 3, 2011, 8:30 p.m.
in room 339 of the children’s hospital
[handwritten in my journal and retyped here]
Dear Daniel,
I’m not sure which was harder: the agonizing anticipation of your surgery—especially as the clock dragged on an hour past the scheduled 11 a.m. and your patience ran out and you were so hungry—or the helpless feeling as you writhed in pain in recovery and there was nothing we could do to help (especially that morphine wasn’t already doing). It’s 8:30 p.m. and you’ve finally calmed some, thanks to the Tylenol. You drank 1 1/2 ounces Pedialyte and when you kept it down but were still so upset the doctor said you could nurse. You were so glad, but you’re so tired too so we mostly snuggle between gas pains. The anesthesiologist said a lot of air got in your tummy during the surgery. And according to the older kids who have this surgery, the gas pain (which goes clear up to your shoulders) is worse than the surgery pain. [Mommy found out later that they have to pump the cavity with air in order to perform the surgery, and then that air has to be absorbed into your stomach before it can be passed out as gas—no wonder you were uncomfortable!]
Of course, your I.V. keeps blocking and they come and check it and wake you up, so you and I haven’t gotten much real rest yet. So I keep my eyes open writing to you, texting Grandma pictures, and updates to Facebook. The 20 ounce iced coffee is helping, too, though I am sure I could be out in a minute if only I could stay on the couch that long without someone coming in. Pediatric units are heartbreaking, even when you don’t see but a patient or two—you hear and imagine.
Okay, kissing you isn’t allowed when you are sleeping. You want to wake up for food but you’re too tired.
You and your daddy got to spend some very nice quality time today. I do believe it is the most he’s ever held you. With him, you relaxed instead of constantly looking for food. He took good care of you today. I love my men. I’m glad, so glad your daddy could be here with me. I’ve sent him off to surgery three times, two of which I spent alone. That is not fun.
Our pastor—Pastor Dan—came and was with us for the two hours before you went into surgery. He has that special gift of just being there, not making nervous conversation, just being available and being a person to have random conversation about the weather with when one needs to talk about something, think about something other than surgery. He prayed for us right before they came to get you.
I didn’t bring my camera, not knowing whether it would be safe, but there are snapshots embedded in my memory (and some on my cell phone)…
Your daddy rocking you, sweetly swaddled, finally sucking a pacifier, as we waited for surgery. The anesthesiologist yelling to tell us, over your hungry cries, that they would take good care of you. The nurse carrying you away, having successfully transferred your once-again-resting little figure from Daddy’s arms to hers—after I kissed your little forehead one more time.
Those two hours of waiting with your daddy, eating, reading, trying not to think—varied by the little girl screaming about her upcoming dental surgery. The grandfatherly gentlemanly doctor coming back and telling us it all went well. Me moving to your daddy’s lap and trying not to cry out of sheer relief.
And then, then, finding this tiny bundle, swaddled in a too-big hospital blanket, in the middle of a too-big bed. A tiny oxygen mask by your face, and all these tubes and cords going to you. Your extra-puffy face. Your little sounds of grunting complaint. The hoarse breathing from the tube having been down your throat. The tiny I.V. site in your tiny hand. The tiny blood pressure cuff on your ankle. The itty bitty pulse reader on your big toe, with a red light that made your toe rival Rudolph’s nose.
It broke my heart to see my little bundled boy lying there. I knew you were okay. I knew others had it so much worse. But you are my son, my only son, and you were in pain and I couldn’t even comfort you with my breast. I leaned on your daddy then and silently thanked Jesus that you were okay, that you would get better, that it wasn’t serious.
Now I’m hearing happy sighs. No more hoarse breathing. Just the beeping of your blocked I.V. and the beautiful strains of the classic music station.
I cried tears when you were so upset and I couldn’t feed you yet. I cried more tears when your daddy left to go home to put your sisters to bed. They just called, Ru in tears missing us. I’ve never spent a night away from your daddy—at least any farther than the hay field—and no this is the second night since you were born. At least I have one of my men with me.
And now, I think I’ll try the silence button on this I.V. and maybe we can get some sleep.
I love you, little man and I am so thankful God granted us a few more hours with you. I was willing, but not ready, to say goodbye. I love you, little son. Goodnite.
Always,
your mom
Young Ladies Christian Fellowship
