I remember the light -
the way it slipped through the slats in the
vertical blinds as we began the final leg of our
journey together.

I remember you -
the way you felt when your
daddy laid you on my chest,
soft and slimy and
perfect.

I remember the midwife -
the way she told me how
beautiful you were and how
perfect your butt was and that I should
kiss it…so I did!

I remember everything about the night before -
the way my water broke at one,
the ride to the hospital at two,
three contractions at the admissions desk,
the way your daddy held me up through
every pressure wave,
the water pouring over me,
going to the furthest threshold of pain without any barrier of relief,
the way you turned after all our hard work.

And I remember the moment -
too sacred to tell.

I remember the light -
the light of your life and soul
so new and fresh,
the light of you in a world wanting for brightness.

Happy Birthday, sweet Jude. I will always remember your story and love your life.

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I laughed as Jude cuddled up close to me. It was his new way of letting me know he was making the poo-poo. As his poops become more solid, he is becoming more freaked out by the whole “number two” thing. So he cuddles.

I looked at the clock. I had time, or a few minutes anyway. “Alright,” I said, “let’s go change that diaper, let’s go change that diaper….” I sang our made-up diaper song as we cha-cha’ed to his room and proceeded to swap out the hot mess. I got him all cleaned up in time to prep a little for my podcast interview.

But as we sat on the floor a few minutes later – me with my laptop and Jude with his blocks – it happened. Jude crawled quietly over to me and climbed into my lap, again, wrapping his arms around my neck.

“Aw, buddy, what’s going on?” But I already knew. More poop. Big time poop.

I sprang into action with just a few minutes to spare before I’d be chatting with Josh Case of the Nick and Josh Podcast. But not only was this the messier of the two diapers, Jude wasn’t even remotely interested in being on his back for another diaper change. He was so opposed, in fact, that he rolled over before I could catch him, dragged his leg through the stinky mass, crab-crawled toward his blocks and laughed.

With about sixty seconds to spare before my interview appointment, I chased Jude down, cleaned him up, put on a fresh diaper, and scrubbed the carpet. Then I did this interview. An interview I’m proud of if for no other reason than that it was born out of a very authentic, very as-is moment. There’s  just something about a laughing, cuddling, pooping one-year-old that keeps you real, humbled and completely incapable of posing.

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“Abba. Abba. Abba.”

Jude keeps saying Abba. All the time Abba. While he’s playing with his blocks. While he’s eating his Toastie O’s. While he’s riding in his car seat. Even as he drifts to sleep.

I know he doesn’t know what he’s saying, what his baby talk means. But there’s something in it and it is not wasted on me.

“Whoever becomes simple and elemental again. like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
- Gospel of Matthew 18:4 (The Message)

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Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.

And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.

Was it dangerous?

Sure.

Was it risky?

You bet.

But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.

As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.

Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.

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