Brooks

My neighbor and I were chatting on the porch the other day. It was one of those conversations that you have all the time. About houses and neighbors and kids and life. But this one was different. Instead of the usual flippancy and sarcasm that I so often resort to when I am talking about my children, what stinkers they are, how they drive me crazy for this and that, this was different. This time we talked about how much we love these kids of ours. My neighbor just had a pulmonary embolism. I lost my brother. Our perspectives on life seem to have altered over the past months. Especially where our children are concerned. We talked about wanting more. She has two and I have four. And "just one more" just won't get out of our heads. And I went back into the house thinking about it. Thinking about the possibility of one more. And even more about the four I already have. Especially the littlest one. They were good thoughts. Here are a few of them.

When I was growing up, there were only two of us. And two just didn't seem like enough. I wanted more brothers and sisters. More siblings to fight with and talk with and laugh with and love. My mom did too. But there was nothing either of us could do about it. So I knew when it was my time to be momma, there would be more. If I had any say in the matter there would be lots and lots more. And there are. Four is a lot more than two. And I wanted four desperately. The first three were a breeze. I got pregnant. I had a baby. Easy. Number four was not so easy. I had a miscarriage before Brooks was born. It was so hard and emotional that I thought I would not be able to do it again. But I did. My entire pregnancy with Brooks was full of a sort of nervous tension. The moment he was born was one of my sweetest memories. A years worth of hope and anticipation finally coming true. Love does not even describe the way I felt about this sweet babe. It still doesn't. He is such a joy.

When Jeff's dad died, Brooks was just months old. During the weeks surrounding his death I had one of those moments. I was sitting there holding Brooks, feeling so bad for my Jeff, for the friend he was losing in his dad. For the months and years ahead that he would need him and miss him and long for that relationship. And I looked down at Brooks and I knew that as he grew, he and Jeff would have that same closeness, that same friendship that he had with his dad. I just knew. And with that knowing, all the lingering pain and sadness that I felt from the last year just melted away. I knew that this was how it was suppose to be. That Brooks was exactly what our family needed and that was what mattered.

When my brother died, I was on the phone with my mom. I do not remember what we said. In all those days, I remember this. In the background I could hear my dad weeping. The sound that came from him is one that I have never heard before. It was the sound of pure grief. It was the same sound I saw in his face when we got to Portland days later. A profound sadness. My dad has a tender heart. One that breaks into a hundred pieces when he hurts. The days ahead seemed too much for his tender heart to handle. That sound, the funeral, seemed to loom ahead of us. More than my dad could take. The day came. I sat on the stand and watched my dad. Watched the tears well in his watery blue eyes. Watched him hold my little baby in his arms. Brooks drifted off to sleep as the funeral began. My dad held him tight. He sat and slept the entire time, helping my dad through his hardest hour. He still talks about it. What a comfort it was.

I know I have said it before. How I love this baby. How he is the sweetest little boy on the planet. How when life is crazy, he smiles and makes the crazy seem a little more bearable. How he knows when I'm sad and gives me a big smoochy kiss that pushes it all away. I know I've said it all. But this is why I mean it. Love, love, love this babe of ours.