field guide

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday. You can all share a collective sigh of amazement with me, and possibly pass the tissues. He’s my firstborn. And he’s five years old. It’s taking some getting used to. In August he will start “big school” and launch a whole new trajectory of independence. As with every stage, he’s forging the way Bug and Baby Girl will follow all too quickly.

Whether we like it or not, firstborns seem to prime the pump by virtue of their very newness. They are the first fruit of anything (or anyone) else to come. LDB set the scene for pregnancy, childbirth, infancy, and all the developmental stages beyond. He christened me in all those areas. I was wide-eyed in wonder most of the time and hyper-sensitive to each nuance. He formed the assumptions upon which those same experiences with his siblings to follow were based. While I’ve resisted the urge to compare and contrast, it happens. His has been the benchmark by which all their stages have been measured — not in terms of good or bad, but in the way of expectations and the anticipation of growth or change. His has been the benchmark of change in myself, the transformation of woman to mother and all the complicated soul-immersion that title entails.

I named him Little Drummer Boy in this venue because during his toddler years, he always seemed to follow the beat in his own head, and he pressed anything and everything around him into the service of articulating that syncopation. As he’s grown, he’s become less enamored with the perpetual and all-encompassing trap set, and more involved with the typical car chases, fire emergencies and train adventures in which boys are usually found. However, I still notice his beat. It’s the one heard in his plethora of very distinctive sound effects. It’s the one found in his unending toy sagas where rockets and dinosaurs seem to thicken the plot every time. I have yet to find it in my heart to call him anything shortened for blog-aging purposes. This particular Drummer is and will always be MY Little and Boy as well.

He was born four weeks early, to the day. Little Drummer Boy’s unexpected birth on May 2 came after some minor concerns during the last part of my pregnancy. My doctors’ good care and cautious natures recognized that the risks possible with LDB were minimal, but insisted on consistent sonograms and stress tests to confirm their suspicions. Therefore, I saw lots of pictures of Little Drummer Boy before he was born. Those sonograms were difficult emotionally. The fear in waiting for results each time was inescapable, even though I knew there was likely no need for concern. They were difficult because they made LDB so real. Yes, I knew he was real. I had felt his early movements. But, in seeing his tiny and newly formed body, I fell in love with him. Completely. It changed me. It changed so much about how I saw things. How I saw Little Drummer Boy, how I saw myself and my life, and how I saw the rest of the world. I think I’m only just now getting past that gripping fear of knowing my whole world was wrapped up in this other new person.

Little Drummer Boy offered first glimpses of that wonder of having another human being formed inside me. The most amazing thing I remember about being pregnant with LDB was feeling him move. I so vividly remember that feeling of having him touching me from the inside. It was strange and amazing all at the same time. And, while I wasn’t overly romantic or existential about this unique womanly experience, it was unforgettable. I can also clearly remember that moment when he was out of my belly. There was such a void there. I was empty, but relieved all at the same time. It brought so much joy to hear him cry and see him and hold him in my arms the first time. I remember those feelings with each of my children, but I suppose they were most poignant with Little Drummer Boy. My experiences with Bug and Baby Girl were certainly no less precious or significant, but their births simply had the reality of not being first. The wonder was still incredibly wonderful, only not the wonder of a first “weaving.”

Little Drummer Boy offered me first fruits… The first fruits of watching my very heart sitting outside my body. The first fruits of love that is unquenchable–by the dirtiest of diapers or the loudest shout of “no” or the most frustratingly tearful bedtime. First fruits of wishing I could control the entire world, but knowing I’ll never be able to do that. First fruits of being sure I’ll never know any greater joy than this moment, only to have the next moment surpass it. He offered the first fruits of realizing this other person, this other tiny soul, is totally dependent on me. The first fruits of dreading that day when he’ll be disappointed. First fruits of knowing, as impossible as it seemed during those beginning years, that he would live to make a wrong choice at some point because that’s what humans do. Firstborn sadness of seeing that wrong choice and knowing I’d give him ten thousand other chances to get it right, plus one more. Firstborn fruit is sweet. And bitter. And utterly defying of description, although I’m desperately trying.

When I think about how small Little Drummer Boy was when he was born and how he just covers me now when he sits in my lap, I can’t believe it. I find myself thanking God he still wants to sit in my lap. LDB is a gentle and curious spirit. He has a big vocabulary, loves books, and loves stories–mainly telling them. He always has a story line going on in his head. It incorporates everything he’s interested in at a given moment, so his story is a precious picture of his heart and mind I want to discipline myself to hear with undivided attention. My Little Drummer is very inquisitive, but also very cautious. He is my child who always contemplates before making a move. He doesn’t always do new things very quickly, but he’s a very thoughtful child. He is quick to say “I love you,” perhaps because I tell him so often myself out of sheer necessity in my soul. He says it without being prompted. He often says it first. First fruits from my firstborn. He changed my life.

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday.

Happy Birthday, Little Drummer Boy! You completely changed my life five years ago today. I’ll never be the same, and I’m forever grateful for the simple and amazing gift of you.

I spent most of this week with Baby Girl. She was feverish and fighting an ear infection, the pain of teething and a viral infection that settled in her sweet little mouth in the form of fever blisters. She was discontented regardless of the situation, but intent on communicating her wishes. Only, she didn’t know the words to do that just yet. The one phrase she actually mastered was “No, Mommy!”–something I heard quite frequently during my attempts to comfort her. She was completely unlike herself. My normally smiling and happy-go-lucky daughter was restless and sleepless and often distraught from the pain and discomfort. And, that’s quite a disturbing situation for the Mommy in the equation as well.

During the week, I found that the front porch swing became a great comfort. Something about swinging with a gentle breeze blowing and the somewhat silent scent of nature seemed to settle her down. This child who was pushing against me, crying for some unknown comfort that she couldn’t communicate, resistant to my arms and the rest they might provide finally slowed down with the help of that pendulum motion. She slowly allowed herself to lean against my chest and give way to the need to stop. She finally settled into a relaxed position, her breathing beating a regular rhythm, her hands involuntarily clutching my tee shirt. The posture of rest.

Even when she’s well, Baby Girl often goes through a similar process to reach a similar conclusion. She plays and plays and plays, a constant picture of experimentation and inquisitiveness and busy-body activity. She resists the insistence of nap-time or bedtime until it finally takes over in a sudden pause. When she finally embraces the need to rest, it’s immediate. With pig-tailed doll in hand, knees pulled under and her bottom in the air, she gives in and lets the time to cease take over.

What a blessed relief it is to be given the opportunity to cease! To take the opportunity. To enjoy the opportunity unencumbered by ought tos and should bes. The willingness to finally give up the command of activity, the command of the moment, the command of the day is an undervalued discipline in these times of constant motion.

The concept of shabbat, celebrated as the seventh day of the Jewish calendar, beginning at sundown on Friday, has been commonly construed as a “day of rest.” However, I’ve read where the word is actually translated “to cease.” It’s an interesting and somewhat expanded explanation–imbuing it with much more meaning that a simple nap might provide. In fact, the notion of shabbat is one sort of lost on most of our culture today. Realistically, it’s lost on me almost every week. No kidding. The “act” of ceasing is not usually in my repertoire.

The Jewish faith seems to have revered the command given in Exodus–the blessing–far more than those in modern Christianity. The concepts of sacred and holy are largely lost in the 21st century traditions of Christianity, and perhaps the Sabbath rest can rightly withstand a modernization according to the culture of the day. But, the need for ceasing is still quite relevant. Through the millenia of persecution (given and received) and displacement and replacement, Judaism has managed to retain an appreciation of the sacred and its incorporation into the daily occurence of life. There IS something sacred and awe-inspiring in the normal mundane existence of life. To be given that existence is quite profound in and of itself. I’m convinced that this sacred existence must gain some sort of elaboration through the act of ceasing. After all, God Himself chose to cease.  Regardless of whether that “ceasing” is celebrated on Saturday or Sunday and whether the concept of “work” is an activity rigidly defined, shabbat is clearly worth consideration.

The act of ceasing the normal can remind us of the sacred of life. It pushes us to celebrate that which is plain and common. That which we otherwise might not even notice. A shabbat cease from whatever activity that may be clouding our vision or watering down our perspective often refreshes and redeems our view. Somehow the act of standing still brings healing.

As surely as I can look at a feverish and fretful Baby Girl and know that her greatest and most healing action is a nap, I can recognize that often in times of feverish activity and mental engagement, a time to cease is the most healing step for me as well.

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)