How Do We Love Them?

Each time I have contemplated having another baby, the thought has struck me: how is it possible that I should love another child as much as I love this one? Each of my children has been an incredible--amazing!--emotional investment: all of the hopes, fears, worries, joyful moments, new experiences, anxieties. . . For years, I wasn't certain that I could have another baby and love him or her as much as I loved my son--fertility wasn't the issue, but love. The thought seemed strange. At the risk of sounding cliché, it was becoming Catholic that opened my mind to the possibility that I could, indeed, have another baby to love, with whom to share all of our family experiences--but that's another post. The same thoughts surfaced when I was pregnant for number three--I was still in the midst of the intense, anxious infant-to-toddler love; my son had had years of my love (and I had had years to love only him with wonderful and difficult mother-love) and seemed much more self-sufficient by the time his sister was born. But however many babies we have, there are always new things to be learned, and I've been thinking about how we love our growing families. . .

We love them all in their different ways--that seems obvious. Each has a different personality, different needs. But while that is true, there are ways that we love them that are the same--or similar--for each child, which nevertheless vary according to where we are with them at the time.

We love them in the midst of the group dynamic: When older brother is able to pick up the youngest, we smile to see his delicate manipulation of her soft floppiness. When he is able to negotiate the various compromises of toddler interaction to give Momma time to take a shower, we are grateful. And amid our exasperation from the noise and commotion it generates, we love to see his horseplay with the little sisters because of the affection it betrays. There is a communication between the baby and the toddler that is amazing to see. . . We love the nicknames that one bestows on the other. And the thrill that is apparent when little sister catches sight of her big sister reverberates through us, and we echo her joy.

We also love them in ways that are (st)age-appropriate: Babies, we adore. This is why we celebrate Christmas, no? That this instinctual love that humans are meant to feel for the smallest and most helpless of our race--the rapt emotional embrace that requires no act of our will--should be transferred to our Lord and Savior. We love them in our recognition of the newness of their actions and their experiences--in our observation of the novelty of their interactions with their senses, their bodies, their families, their worlds. Even amid sweet frustrations, we love their recognition of ourselves--who we are to them--and love their needs, which we alone fulfill. We love their cries and fussiness, and dwell on the sweet sounds that we know we can soothe, or else we love them with anxiety, holding them until their discomfort passes.

Toddlers, we love with tolerance and a sense of adventure. We love them with a wry twinkle, appreciating their cleverness as they demonstrate to us that we can't sneak anything past them--not an open door, not a single piece of chocolate. We love them when we follow their routines--never ever coming in the front door when we come home, but heading around the building to play by the porch. We love them when we "see down" to play with legos or blocks instead of doing that very important thing that we should be doing. And when we repeat with wonder that word or phrase that we've just heard for the first time, or smile at that thing that they shouldn't be doing but which is a very big accomplishment, we give them our love. By letting the baby cry or fuss just a little bit longer to attend to the needs of the toddler, we are loving them in a way that really matters. In every delicate frustration we endure--even if not so well--or turn into a rowdy game, in every single effort to divert attention from that one forbidden or harmful thing, we love them. We love them as we share our tasks with them, even if we can accomplish them better alone. We love them when we hold them like the babies they still are, enjoying their affection whenever it happens to present itself.

In all of their seeming independence and hidden vulnerability, we love our older ones--our "pre-teens," though that term is speeding them on to a stage they have not yet reached--in ways that are subtle, but special. It may mean popping in to comment on a particularly well-played cello piece, suggesting that something is not quite right with a certain note, or asking about the piece being played. In our attentions to what is important to them, we love them. It may mean listening--at least for a little while--to the narrative of "how I beat the last video game boss." We love them when we laugh at their jokes--even the really corny ones. We love them when we accept the help they give us rather than dwelling on the help that was not given. We love them when we answer their questions honestly and carefully, giving neither too much information, nor too little. We love them by walking beside them sometimes, not always in front.

We love them all by remembering all of the ways we love them, as often as possible.

Happy St. Valentine's!

I figure with the rest of the world trying to shorten "Valentine's" to "V," either to resemble the similarly shortened the "V" Monologues (and thus make Valentine's Day a celebration of that anatomical morsel), to remove traces of the saint for whom the day is named, or from the sheer linguistic laziness that is so prevalent, especially in electronic media, I will keep the "Saint" and the "Valentine" and forget the "Day"--at least in my title.

Actually, I almost did forget the day! It's been an exhausting week since last Wednesday, when my daughter developed a stomach virus right before beginning her Amoxil for an earache. So today, since things have calmed down and for the first time since last Tuesday, I was the only one home (my husband was also sick for a few days & I was happy to have him home, but not happy that he was unwell!), I tried to get back in my routine while getting a little emotional rest & reading the book I've been working on for pleasure. It occurred to me mid-morning that it was Valentine's Day, something I remembered before going to bed (after midnight), but had forgotten by the morning.

Valentine's Day is a curious holiday for me. In spite of its origin with a saint who was martyred for his covert celebration of sacramental marriage, it seems to be largely enjoyed by a category of people best described as single-yet-attached. It is a holiday peopled by clueless men. It is the holiday of expectant or disappointed women, of expectant or disappointed men. These thoughts occurred to me while driving around this evening among the flurry of excitement, or walking around stores observing the last minute purchases--and purchasers.

When my husband & I first found each other, we shared a mutual dislike of the holiday, having never had someone to share it with. We therefore threw ourselves into it the purchasing of gifts and cards with gusto our first few years. There was one year of disappointment after our first child was born, as I was unable to go shopping and regretfully, did not manage to contrive a gift. This post was intended to be about my changing attitude towards the holiday: the fluctuation from dislike to excitement, to sentimentality, to something not quite resembling apathy--more the quiet feeling that accompanies the opportunity to appreciate having someone that I love deeply, while acknowledging that cards and gifts do not have the power to express this love (especially after the anniversary of our Convalidation in October, his birthday in November, Christmas in December, my birthday in January. . . we're gifted out by this time!). This was how I envisioned the Valentine post this afternoon, as I sat rocking my baby to sleep: I was going to commemorate the holiday by downplaying it a bit, mentioning the beauty of everyday love and the hassle and expense of finding babysitters.

My intentions changed when, as I was sitting on our futon reading, my husband walked in with a dozen pink roses. It really is amazing how moving a small gesture can be, and it was all the more moving since, unlike the multitudes of women who woke up this morning or went out this evening, I had not expected it!

We moved through the rest of the evening doing ordinary things: we went to dinner (with the kids!), went to Target to buy ourselves iTunes cards, ran in to a store or two for essentials. An ordinary, yet extraordinary, romantic evening.