Ode to Jude

I love all three of my children the exact same amount. 

I really do. 

I love the girl kid for so many reasons. I love her creativity, her love of books, the way she loves to write and draw, her girly love of fashion and fingernail polish, her kind way with people, her sweet smile and her deep thinking that also drives me nuts.

I love the baby kid too. In spite of the fact that he almost killed me in the early years of his life, he is now the most sensitive and kind of all three kids. He's funny and smart. He's the most loving and affectionate of the kids and he amazes me at the things he thinks about. 

And then there's the middle kid. 

He's eight today, by the way.

And since this is the anniversary of his birth, I have been introspective and reflective about this child of mine.

We joke that he was the easy baby and it's true. We got him quite easily, and my pregnancy with him was not marred by the anxiety of a first time mom. We had most of what we needed already and got bags full of blue hand-me-downs from sweet friends. 

An infection sent me into an early labor with him, and I ended up in the hospital in labor late one night, dehydrated and exhausted. After a bag and a half of fluids, it became apparent that he was actually coming three days before his due date. I was tired, but ready.

It was a relatively easy labor. I remember several parts of it vividly: The lady next door to me was having twins, and she screamed. A lot. And loudly. We cranked the praise music in my room until it was blaring down the hall. There was a violent thunder storm and the thunder seemed to rattle everything. I remember my friend Hayes' hands on my back, massaging me through the worst contractions. I remember the dim lights, the soft voices and the eyes on me. 

Finally, I was past exhaustion and the contractions were coming more quickly than I could stand. I couldn't get my breath and I couldn't get on top of them and I was done. I felt scared and out of control. I wanted it over. 

I panicked.

When you have an unmedicated birth, you ask for drugs a lot. One suggestion that we took before hand was to set up a code word for when you really meant that you needed drugs. 

I looked at the sweet nurse that had been so patient and kind. I was slightly crazed from the pain and exhaustion. 

"I want drugs."

She looked at Allen, who started to repeat the rehearsed responses to my requests. 

"No. I mean it. I want drugs."

He patiently started to encourage me when I grabbed his shirt and yelled the word we had decided on months earlier, 

"GRASSHOPPER!!!!!!"

His eyes got huge and he looked at the nurse and Hayes. 

"She wants drugs."

Hayes said to the nurse, "Why don't we start with a quarter dose of Stadol."

She added that to my iv and we waited. 

"MORE!" I yelled.

"Another quarter dose."

And we waited.

"AH! MORE!" I yelled again.

Hayes looked at me in the eyes, put her hand on my arm and said, "One more quarter dose."

I said okay.

A few minutes later, I was so.... happy. And drunk. But I didn't care. I could relax. I actually dozed off between contractions. 

Then I knew it was about time.. I looked around and my mom and one of my sisters and the doctor were gone. 

"Where'd they go?" I asked Hayes. 

"They're in the hall. They don't like to see you in pain." 

The doctor doesn't like to see me in pain? Good grief. 

I looked at the nurse who was at the end of the bed. I sat up and said to her, "I'm done."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Okay...?" 

I pushed that kid out with one push. 

"Stop!!!" she yelled and said, "Go get the doctor." 

Jude's head was out. The doctor walked in and said, "That was fast."

"Where were you?" I asked accusingly. He laughed. "Let's get the rest of him out, okay?"

He sat Jude on my chest and kissed me on the forehead. "Good job, Mama." 

Allen hadn't moved from my side, and then this picture. The first one:

There was no anxiety this time. I held that baby boy whose name means praise and I did just that. I walked him in the dark quiet of the hospital, and with tears streaming down my face dripping on his tiny swaddled self, I thanked God for him over and over and over again. I couldn't stop. 

My son. 

He was so easy. He was a newborn and with that came all the hard work and exhaustion, but he was so gentle and easy. He would sleep for hours in his baby swing until I would go poke him to make sure he was still breathing. 

He needed me constantly and we were never far apart, but it was a sweet and gentle relationship. I didn't know then exactly how easy it was. 

He was only 15 months old when I got pregnant with our 3rd baby. The loss of that baby and the subsequent complications of that and then my pregnancy with the 4th baby took a lot out of me. I worried that it affected him too much. I tried to be what he needed. I will probably always worry that I wasn't the best mom during that period. I will always hope it didn't affect him negatively forever. 

He grew into a quiet, introspective kid. Gentle still and always easy. 

I still didn't realize how easy until the third baby was born. The stark contrast of them made me realize even more how quiet and easy this one was.

But then I started to see how this can be hard. Even harder than a kid who demands and receives. Jude would fade into the background and never demand anything. He wouldn't push his way to the front and his needs got overlooked. His voice wasn't heard and he was always the one who sacrificed his wants and needs to the "squeaky wheels" of the family.

I'm not sure I compensated for this very well. I would say constantly, "You okay, Buddy?" I asked too many questions to pull him out. I finally felt the Spirit's urging me to be quiet yet attentive. 

Parenting this kid is in fact harder than the other two. Being available in a busy, often time chaotic life for him to come to me, is challenging. To have enough quite for him to speak out. To have the restraint to not ask him questions to draw him out but to create an environment where he feels safe and comfortable to share his heart.

It's hard.

And to trust that he doesn't have to talk a lot. He is okay to be quiet and introspective.

He's a people pleaser. The baby kid will do and be what he wants with little regard of others. (I'm trying to bend that into a constant obedience to Christ.)  Not so with this middle kid. He goes with the flow. He blends and cooperates and complies. I want him to be stubborn in his love for Christ and determination to do what's right. I'm praying in that way. 

I also began to see a lot of myself in him. I tried to teach him that sometimes we have to step outside of ourselves and share and talk and communicate. 

It's ironic. God is teaching me through teaching my son. 

He's the quintessential middle kid. Just like my Dad and so much like my sweet middle sister. I see so many of the same precious qualities in them. 

This kid.

 He's uproariously funny. Possesses a quick wit. Smart and observant. Still gentle. Lover of animals. All animals. So much so that we call him the "animal whisperer." Reserved and quiet until things are just so and then he'll talk your ear off. 

He came to Christ all on his own. Told me shyly one morning that he was now a Christ follower. Didn't want to talk about it at length, but I believed him. He's the kid with a love of the Word. I'll find his Bible in his bed with him in the morning where he read it before falling asleep. He'll show me what he's been reading. He has a sweet love for our pastor and will even do spur of the moment impersonations of him that absolutely wreck us. He told me shyly once that he too wanted to be a pastor, and though that is firmly between him and the Lord, my breath caught in my throat when he uttered those words. I admit to having prayed that way since hearing those words, hoping God would be gracious and use him that way. 

I love this kid who looks just like his daddy and acts just like me. He even has an obnoxious laugh that still catches me off guard when I hear it. I love the time when he and I are alone. I feel  more at ease with him than most anyone. There are times that he and I lock eyes over the roar of our house, and it's as if he's saying, "Whew. These people are insane..."We have a common, unspoken language, he and I. When I offend or ask of him something he doesn't approve of, he will give me what he call the "stink eye." It kills me. 

I pray a lot for his wife. I pray God will give him someone who is tender and can be trusted with the gentleness of this person. Someone willing to care for him carefully and appreciate his tender ways. Someone who will allow him to be strong in his sweet, quiet leadership. I pray God teaches him how to be a strong, unyielding, unwavering, Godly man.   

His love for his big sister at times I think surpasses his love for anyone else, even me. They honestly never ever fight or argue. It's one of the most beautiful relationships I have ever seen. His baby brother makes up for the ease of that relationship. They are almost constantly at odds, but seem to love each other still. The older the baby kid gets, the easier it is. I beg Jude to hang in there. I pray he's learning coping skills that will last a life time. 

I could talk about this enigma of a kid all day. I could write of all the qualities he possesses that I so desperately want for myself. I want to be like him when I grow up. 

I still desperately thank God for giving him to me. I pray I'm worthy to be his mother. I pray that I can parent him well in the complexity of all that he is. I pray that God will use him in the most amazing way. 

I'm thankful that I get to celebrate him today.