When I look at Hunter, I sometimes see a dynamic kaleidescope of overlapping images.

I see him as he was just born, just starting to squirm on my belly, blue and slimy yet altogether miraculous.

I see him just before he was taken to the nursery, that sweet, tiny little face looking at me from the swaddling in his father's arms.

I see him now, all these expressions becoming more expressive each day, his neck getting stronger yet still wobbly and easily tired, eyes fascinated by the world.

I see a little boy on his first day of kindergarten, perhaps a bit nervous, maybe eager to meet new friends, maybe shy and clinging to his daddy's hand.

I see a young man in high school, in college, full of love and laughter and curiosity, sometimes insecure, maybe sometimes doubtful, but resiliant and shining.

I see Hunter in love, finding someone remarkable who makes him glow and whom he makes glow in turn, someone who will share his life.

I see him follow dreams, face disappointment and heartache and joy and wonder.

And I wonder if these pictures are good to have.


One concern is for him: I don't want to force him into being or doing anything that I project upon him, however subconsciously or with the best of intentions. Maybe he won't go to college. Maybe he won't raise a family. I want him to be happy, and I want Hunter to be Hunter, whoever that turns out to be. Anything more specific than that is up to him.

Another big concern is for me: I don't want to spend so much time dreaming about the future that I miss out on now. Every day, he's a little bit bigger, a little more aware of his surroundings, a little more an actual person. It's glorious, and it's sad, because he'll never again be as tiny as he was that first week, he'll never again cry quite the same "Lah! Lah! Lah!" sound he did when he was still figuring out how his tongue worked, and so many other things that are constantly changing in the one-way stream of time.

And there is yet another concern, one I'm almost ashamed of: if something happens to him, I'd have to mourn all these dreams that would never come true.


I've already had a couple of situations of complete panic. After drinking formula, Hunter gets phlegmy and his breathing is kind of raspy. One night, while he was sleeping in the crook of my arm, he was snoring away. Suddenly, he coughed and snorted mightily, clearing his passageways so he wasn't snoring anymore.

To a mostly sleeping parent, this sounds exactly like choking followed by utter silence.

I bolted awake and started hysterically trying to get him to breathe. Fortunately, Shawn was there to calm me down and, after checking closely, assure me that Hunter was breathing just fine. The baby slept through the whole thing.


I don't want to stop dreaming. I don't want to protect myself from loving him.

Last week, I was talking to my cousin about her fear of losing her little boy. I told her that the fear would always be there -- that was part of being a parent. The way to deal with it was to fill your life with things that were bigger and more important than fear.

So I'll hold Hunter and sing to him and watch him discover his world and try to help him learn whatever he can so he can build a life that's vibrant and beautiful so that each moment together is precious and full of love.

And I'll dream.

---

QotD

Life isn't bliss
Life is just this:
It's living.
The pain that you feel
Can only be healed
By living.

"Give Me Something to Sing About,"
Buffy -- The Musical