Jack Dempsey Is His Name

ojandpretzels

He doesn’t want to nap. He’d rather play with Tinker Toys and his train set. In fact, he does play with his Tinker Toys and his train set. And he turns off his fan. And then he tears the back cover of his book, Where the Wild Things Are, and stuffs his other book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, under the door into the hallway. And then he eats the paper he tore off of Where the Wild Things Are. And then he poops, because apparently he didn’t get it all out those three times before. And he just keeps forgetting, despite the constant reminders from Mama and Daddy, that he’s supposed to be staying in his bed. He is offended by our frustration. His trains are fun. His door is shut all the way, so he simply lunges his body against it casually, and appears surprised when he sees his Mama come in, for the fifth time, to correct him (that’s not counting the seven times his Daddy came in). He finally falls asleep. And then he wakes up an hour later in a sweaty, crying mess.

chalkHe melts my heart.

He makes me weep.

He always has to kiss both of my cheeks.

He makes my head hurt.

He hates to see me hurt.

He doesn’t always listen to me.

He has a gentle spirit.

He is headstrong.

He loves me like no other.

He makes me crazy.

He puts both arms around my neck, and suddenly, things don’t seem so complicated anymore.

bathtimeHe looks at me with those big, blue eyes and asks, “Mo? Peas?” He follows me into the kitchen and waits patiently as I prepare his snack. I ask him to find his water cup, and he graciously complies. He meets me at his highchair and I lift him up. He sits there, quietly, munching away on his bell peppers, carrots, and celery. He gulps and gulps and gulps his water. He tells me, in gibberish, all about the things he sees outside. He smiles. I relax. I remember that it isn’t always so bad. Sometimes, it’s kind of bad. Occasionally, it’s really bad. But most of the time, it’s really, really, really good.

And I’m blessed to mother him. I’m blessed to shepherd him through this life. I’m honored to have been chosen as the one who guards his heart. These trials are trying, but they produce fruit. Any trial that produces fruit is worth my sweat, my tears, my attention, my commitment.

He is my son.

And Jack Dempsey is his name.

Advertisements

5 Comments

Filed under Jack, on being a mama, photographs

5 responses to “Jack Dempsey Is His Name

  1. What a beautiful post 🙂 It’s wonderful when you have those “it’s not so bad” moments after a rough patch – we’ve been there…
    Your kids are adorable!

  2. “He follows me into the kitchen and waits patiently as I prepare his snack. I ask him to find his water cup, and he graciously complies. He meets me at his highchair and I lift him up. He sits there, quietly, munching away on his bell peppers, carrots, and celery. He gulps and gulps and gulps his water. He tells me, in gibberish, all about the things he sees outside. He smiles.”

    Oh, my heart just started hurting, thinking about Jameson doing exactly that, and how he’s grown up so much since then. How that’s already over, past, a memory.

    Yup. It’s really, really good.

  3. ashleync

    Thanks for sharing, friend. You said EXACTLY what I was feeling/going through yesterday. Rough day. It’s good to have someone going through a similar situation/circumstance at the same time I am. I’m encouraged by your perspective and attitude.

  4. Thank you for that! I needed it…

  5. Pingback: My Baby Is 2 « Mama Rissa’s Corner

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s