Only love, only love can leave such a mark…
Magnificent, U2

“Yeah, I’m going back to work next month. And I’m also going back to school to get my degree. I’m starting a business, too. Making kids’ toys.”

I sat across from the bright-eyed mom rocking her three-month-old baby in his car seat. I nodded and smiled as Jude wiggled (all 21 pounds of him) in my arms. As I listened to the young mom go on, something fractured a little inside. She went on about all her plans (“Oh, and we’re thinking about getting pregnant again. I’d have another one tomorrow if I could…”), and I began thinking back on my plans. I began thinking back on our six months with Jude, too.

Since July, every thread in the fabric of my being has been restitched. Natural childbirth stretched my body, mind and spirit in a beautiful way I never could have imagined. Colic sewed into my tapestry a broken heart overflowing with a new compassion and powerful motherly-ness. And Jude’s pronounced need for nearness and touch along with his intense passion and fiery spirit has embroidered the stunning stripes of sacrifice and time spent onto my soul.

To put it less flowery: Jude’s tenacious and extraordinary personality coupled with a high-response parenting style that Jason and I decided on and researched long before Jude was born has turned every part of my life (goals, dreams, exercise, everyday tasks, friendships, career, even the simple act of getting a shower) on its head. I could no more entertain the thought of tackling a home-based business and another degree than I could entertain the thought of being president of Bolivia.

So, I continued listening to this mom go on about her plans as her compliant baby fell easily back to sleep in his car seat without a sound. She sipped her tea and smiled with satisfaction. I smiled, too. A real smile, from way deep down, directed at my bold and vibrant son.

In these past six months, I have not been afforded the luxury of serving two masters, so to speak. I have had to choose between Jude and, to put it plainly, me. And I won’t lie, the cost has been great. Projects on hold. A messy house. Friendships barely treading water…and some, sadly, all but lost. Stories unwritten. Many days I have had to choose to do what feels like cutting off a limb – a real true piece of what makes me, me – in order to love Jude in the way that best meets his unique and strong needs.

Maybe the cutting off is just for a season.
Maybe it has always needed to happen.
Maybe it’s for good.

As the young mom finished her list of 2010 goals and dreams, I sighed, tired at the very thought. Maybe if Jude was a tame and yielding and “easy” baby, I could tackle all my goals and dreams this year, too, all while he watched placidly from some Fisher Price kick and play gadget. But he’s not. Not even close. (Truth be told, he’s just like his momma.)

The young mom started chatting quietly with another mom whose baby slept peacefully in her arms. They were talking about how their babies sleep 10 hours through the night. “Isn’t it great?” they said to each other. I smiled as Jude squirmed on my lap. He had woken up four times the night before.

So I sat back and, as I felt the little fracture in my heart about all the other things I can’t do and be right now, I let the beauty and wholeness of who Jude is plant itself in that fault line. I wouldn’t trade his fire and spunk for anything. Not for the chance to accomplish any of my other dreams right now. Not for another minute on the spin cycle at the gym. Not for a longer shower in the morning. Not for a quiet and peaceful night reading by the fire. Not even for uninterrupted sleep. All that stuff is good. And I’ll get back around to it someday. But, in the meantime, I’ll love on my remarkable little world-changer and pass on keeping up perfectly with the dishes and laundry.

Before I began packing up to leave the mom’s group, I turned Jude around in my lap and looked at his face. He smiled. I pulled him close to my chest and he continued drinking in his surroundings with great gusto. Then, without a warning, he arched his back, flung his left arm into the air, watched his fingers curl and uncurl, and then let out the biggest belly laugh you’ll ever hear from an infant. I laughed, too. Our voices echoed in the otherwise subdued room.

Long days and short years, a wise woman once told me. Indeed. And the flower growing in the break is magnificent.