Counting by Tens

Ten fingers.

Ten toes.

A Perfect 10 wiggling about at the end of his folded limbs.

We started out counting by “tens” from the day we first spotted those digits in an ultrasound, the unmistakable black and white shadows gracefully beckoning us with their fluid motions, seeming to wave “hello,” then tightly clenched fists drawn inward, nestled into his chest, in that liquid space he resided for ten months, as we waited impatiently and then patiently for him.

And now, ten months after the day he quietly made his grand entrance — all ten pounds of him — I can hardly believe he’s been on the outside as long as he was once on the inside.

He arrived in the early morning hours of a hot, dry September day, beneath the biggest, brightest full moon of the year, a moon that became his middle namesake, the day that came the day after the ten year anniversary of an unfathomable tragedy still fresh in our collective hearts, a date I specifically remember because I lived in that exact city on that exact day, ten years earlier.

As much as I wanted him to arrive, I also wanted him to wait.

When my Labor Day due date quickly came and passed and I hadn’t started laboring, I secretly hoped he’d be born on any date other than that date, the date that will forever be associated with terror and suffering. I didn’t want him to share his birthday — a joyous occasion — with the date that was all too fresh in my mind, even ten years later. So when the tenth came, followed by the eleventh, I held my breath.

He arrived the next day.

He’s so quiet that at times, we lose track of him, only to find him in a corner happily entertaining himself with blocks or any object he’s turned into a toy for the moment. He’s also a quiet eater, feeding himself with his hands like a white-gloved lady who lunches, dainty, with manners.

In the past two weeks he’s officially become a walker, gingerly making his way across the living room floor, stiff and zombie-like, arms outstretched to keep his balance. When he’s in a hurry, he still resorts to crawling — a little Komodo Dragon chasing after his much-faster brothers.

Of all my babies, at 9 months, he holds the record for being the earliest walker. His dexterity continues to amaze me as he masters his fine motor skills. He holds a cup with ease, is attempting to use a spoon to eat and is discovering a few of the toys his brothers are tinkering with, Lincoln Logs and LEGOS scattered across our living room like shrapnel.

At ten months, my love for him has grown tenfold since that hot September day we welcomed him into our arms and into our hearts.

Happy Ten Months, my little mooncake. You were well worth the wait.

Nine Months

When I hold him and run my fingertips along the buttery skin of his cheeks, I wonder if I’ll remember this. This exact moment.

Will I remember what his flawless baby skin felt like when I stare into the face of the man he’ll become one day? When I look into that man’s face, will I still see the baby whose chubby, neck-less body I used to kiss? It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. He’s noticeably growing daily, but I’m not sure how it happens. Does it happen as he sleeps, his body elongating, his facial features becoming sharper and more prominent?

Everyone tells you this first year goes so quickly and it does. Even in those foggy newborn moments, I remember circling and tracing his hands and feet in my mind, as if that alone would help me remember how small they once were. Every day, I took a mental inventory: the exact pitch of his cry, the circumference of his tiny head, the shape of his fleshy ears. But, still, even with all the photos taken almost hourly on my phone as proof over these past nine months, I’m already forgetting.

He’s obviously the same baby, but he’s a different baby too. There are things he doesn’t do anymore. He doesn’t spit up (thankfully), he doesn’t cry for me the second he sees me enter the room like he used to. He’s content playing by himself. He’s less clingy and needy, heading more and more toward independence. He stands alone on his legs for long chunks of time, without a surface to hold onto. He’s not walking yet, but pushing closer to that milestone. He feeds himself everything the rest of the family is eating, with a deft pincer grasp to boot.

When I stare at his perfect baby face as he drifts off to sleep in my arms at night, I struggle to imagine the man. What will that man look like? What will his voice sound like? What will give him joy in life? The uncertainty of it all is exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time. It’s all a mystery and I want to both slow down the process in getting there and speed it up, so I can meet that man and make sure he’s okay, to know that life is mostly good to him and that he’s as happy as he once was as a nine-month-old baby, the one who came along at exactly the right time in our lives, the one with an easy smile and a contagious belly laugh that made everyone in the room laugh right along with him.

Happy Nine Months, Baby Boy.