Photo: Melanie McGaughey, The Velvet Trunk

You are all that I’ve waited for
All of my life
You pull me closer to love
Mat Kearney, Closer to Love

Before Jude was born, before we knew anything about his temperament, we had outlined a parenting style we wanted to use. It was a style of parenting that felt right to us, instinctual, a set of principles that spoke to my desire to nurture our first son. So we bought the books that touted this parenting style, read up, and before Jude was even born we began implementing these practices.

But then Jude arrived. The second he came on the scene, our plans went out the window. And a few weeks later, when colic and reflux became a reality, we saw our parenting plans come crashing down even harder.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The practices we’ve applied have in large part actually helped all three of us through the colic and reflux. But as we slowly come out of those dark days, we are finding that Jude has different needs than we anticipated. Different needs than our logical, scientifically based parenting model offers.

So I’m thinking there’s a better model. A non-plan plan. A mystery that is low on checklists and high on intangibles. Because you can have all the knowledge, Paul says, and all the books on parenting, and you can have your checklists. But if you don’t have love, it’s nothing. Sweet Jude is teaching me this. He’s teaching me how to get closer to my husband, closer to him, closer to myself.

He’s teaching me how to get closer to love.

*My precious friend Mel took this picture. Have her take your picture, too.

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My yellow in this case is not so mellow
In fact I’m trying to say it’s frightened like me…
But I’m bold, I’m bold as love
Jimi Hendrix, Bold As Love

Love is not a cuddly sort of thing. All parents know this. It’s not pink-and-blue fluffs in a perfectly decorated nursery. It’s not painless, easy breastfeeding. It’s not sleeping through the night. It’s not tearless days. It’s not setting him in a swing where he contentedly occupies himself with dangling mobiles and slobbery gurgles for hours at a time in between naps and feedings.

That’s not love. It’s convenient. But it’s not love. It makes visiting with friends and family stress-free. But it’s not love. It makes cleaning the house possible. But it’s still not love.

Love is found in the foxholes, the trenches. It’s in the warzone where you’ll do things like drive to Alabama at the drop of a hat on a Saturday night to get him a special reflux bed. Where you’ll let him scream in your ear while you hold him and softly sing “Sweet Baby James” to a backdrop of blaring white noise. Where you’ll even surrender the deeply entrenched neuroses that you’ve come to know so well so that your son won’t come to know a co-dependent mother.

Because that’s the kind of thing love does. And damn it, you wouldn’t have learned that any other way than by way of colic, tears, and a little acid reflux.

It’s easy to love a smiley, sleepy baby. But love is not the easy thing. And you love your son more than you love life.

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