Jimmy

Two years ago tonight Billy and I left Charlie with Grandma and Grandpa and drove back to Oxford. We went out for Chinese food that night, and we went to bed early. Unlike the night before Charlie was born, we knew what we were in for. The next morning, Billy drove us slowly and steadily through a snowstorm to the hospital, which was an hour away. The car ride was mostly quiet, and I remember patting my belly and silently apologizing to my still nameless baby for not being more connected to him. Truthfully, the stress of raising Charlie, moving from Madison to Bill's parents' house to Oxford, surviving the short sale and worrying about whether Billy's visiting professorship would be renewed had overshadowed my growing belly. I hadn't taken the time to think about his arrival, how I'd feel about him.

And so, I wasn't prepared for Jimmy. I wasn't prepared for the adoration in his steady gaze. I didn't expect him to fit so perfectly in my arms. I hadn't thought to hope for the cowlicks in his dark hair. I hadn't even considered that he might be so small-boned, so gentle, so different from his brother. I fell in love with him immediately.

Charlie and I are enormously similar people. We like almost everyone we meet. We crave comfort and closeness, but we hate being touched. We aren't easily angered, but we're easily frustrated. We love gossip. We can't understand people who are mesmerized by anything for more than a few minutes. We are injured by injustice and negative interactions, and we both feel the weight of the world on our shoulders. As much as Charlie drives me crazy, I have to admit that I get him. He is mine and I am his and when I look at him, I see my son. My DNA. A little rough and tumble version of myself.

Jimmy is another story. If I wasn't there when he was born, I might believe Jimmy was left behind by a band of tiny, golden-skinned gypsies. Everything about him is foreign, surprising, and absolutely wonderful. When I watch him--his delicate hands moving methodically while playing or his muscular legs pulled in close to his body while watching a show--I feel like I'm spying on a stranger. I often have to remind myself that Jimmy is mine. When Jimmy has a tantrum, or wakes at night, or has a grumpy day, I don't take it personally. I'm just here for the ride. And when he giggles and cuddles and runs around shouting "I little chinchilla! Can't get me, mommy!" I want to die of cuteness. Our relationship is so simple, so easy. The child was meant to be loved. In the back of my mind I know that someone else, some very lucky person, is going to love him and be loved by him someday. And I think, I hope at least, I'll feel lucky for getting to witness his sweetness firsthand all these years.

Happy happy birthday, my darling baby.