I was scheduled for a c-section March 26, 2009. I went to the ER with real contractions, before that, maybe a couple weeks? I wasn't progressing, cried a bit on the phone, with my mom, then went home.
A few days before I was to have him, it snowed. Like, a lot. I was panicked. And pregnant. And full of anxiety. And bossing my husband by quite seriously demanding he go start shoveling. All worked out, though. We were able to get to the hospital, as was my doctor. And the c-section was uneventful.
Then came the postpartum depression. If you backtrack through my blog around that time, you'll see much evidence of this. I don't care to remember - you'll just have to read about it.
Many years of sleepless nights and bed-wetting, later, we find he has sleep apnea. One surgery and two very long weeks, later, that problem is fixed.
A small year after that, he started Kindergarten. He was only slightly hesitant and held back the tears. And he did great.
Then we moved to a new state (third one he's lived in, in his short life) and he experienced major anxiety issues when it came to school. Again, you'll just have to read. I've already talked about it and made my peace with it - no need to dredge it up, now.
He's in a school he loves, now. He has friends he loves, now. He's been playing sports he loves, now. He's growing grown-up teeth and eating like his body is growing, too. He's super smart and so very sweet and loves babies and his brothers and sister. He loves trains and hot dogs and soccer and video games and avocados and onions. Onions! He dislikes reading and watching TV and hard candy and steak. Steak! He wears glasses because he's got his mama's eyes. And his mama's nose. And his mama's face. And his mama's feet. And his mama's mouth (and, unfortunately, his mama's teeth). I predict he'll have his mama's lack of height (5' 9" is my official guess).
And now he's eight. Which is a big deal for folks like us. This is the age of accountability. (Mostly.) When a child turns eight in my church, they have the opportunity to be baptized. He's choosing to do so. We've been doing our best to prepare him and teach him and guide him in what we believe to be right and true and good. I can't believe we're here. I still remember, quite clearly, praying and praying and praying that he would just sleep. For the love of all that is holy - JUST. SLEEP. I remember being comforted by my Heavenly Father during those tender moments. I say tender because that's what they were. They were opportunities for me to love him, to hold him, to rock him and sing to him and just be us. Yes, I was tired. But those moments are not there, anymore. I had so many opportunities to hold him. I'm grateful for the gentle reminder that one night, a little less than eight years, ago, that this is special. This won't last forever. It won't. One day - these days, to be exact - he won't need me to hold him and rock him and comfort him. These days, he has a little brother who usually tags along and gets most of the attention. These days, he's gaining on me, height-wise, and holding him on my lap is awkward, to say the least. These days, he sleeps.
I remember quite clearly how I felt about his spirit before I was able to hold his little body. I felt him as a strong, silent leader. When my husband told me his name (he picked them all out), I felt it, again. Quinlan Thomas Hamblin.
For now, he's still my Quinnie. His cheeks are still squishy and smoochable. He still lets me smooch them, too. And he loves hugs. My sweet boy.
