My First Baby

My first introduction to David Luke Rosenberger was a sound. A helpless cry. He was placed on my bare chest and I was in shock. From somewhere I heard the doctor say “Varoncito!” A little boy. A precious, healthy, breathing little boy. I couldn’t believe he was here. His cries were sharp and loud. But they carried life and wonder. My baby, my first baby, was here. And he was a boy. Of course, he was a boy, I thought. He joined six boy cousins. No girls in the family yet. Of course he would be a boy. On top of that, every Nicaraguan had confidently declared that a little boy, a “varoncito” was in there. Apparently, they could know this based on the shape of my belly. So, the surprise didn’t really feel like a surprise. Most everyone had expected boy. And they were right. What no one expected was that he would have colic. Two weeks hit us like a gust of wind as you round a corner. Our peaceful, predictable baby turned into a mini tyrant. The only predictable thing then became his constant crying all day long. A swing helped some. Gas drops did the trick once or twice. Bouncing and rocking and swaying were all in vain. He didn’t take a pacifier. The swaddling and the shushing white noise in his ear only worked for a minute or two. This kid was inconsolable. Sometimes we just had to put him in his crib and walk away. He was fed, he was changed, but we simply couldn’t get him to be content. Our only saving grace was that he only cried in the daytime. At night he slept. And we slept. Exhausted from a day without a break. A day filled with screams from a newborn we didn’t know how to help. But amid the fussiness, there was a sweetness. Like a break in the storm clouds. There were short bursts of time that were actually peaceful. Then he transformed into a different baby. Even if only for a few minutes. Those eyes wide open. Taking in the world. Body so little. Life so dependent. And then it would be back to screaming. But the screams did not diminish the miracle. The cries did not change our love. Still we sang. Still we talked to him and offered comfort. But we couldn’t wait until he hit three months when supposedly the colic would wondrously disappear. Or so we were told. It took a few extra weeks after he hit three months. Those weeks felt like an eternity. But then it was gone. We had a content baby on our hands again. The sweetest sound I heard during that time was the first time a coo escaped his lips. I about fell over! A sound other than a scream! Could it be possible? The months rolled together as baby David grew and explored his little world. Hard, cold tile floors. Thick, hot air, causing sweat to plaster his diaper to slippery skin. Screen doors that swiftly swung on the hinges. A porch that opened up to the valley below. Critters of all shapes and sizes. Indoors and out. Faithful family dog who let him climb all over her. Blocks and basketballs and cars. He was all boy. There was scarce a day that went by when I didn’t exclaim to my husband, “He’s so cute!” Eyes as blue as the sea, cheeks round as cookie dough balls. Pudgy belly and soft, new skin. I delighted in caring for him. No matter that I struggled with postpartum depression. Yes, I needed to get help. I had to admit I needed the help first. But even in the darkest times of depression, I could still borrow joy from a baby. A face that oozed love and peace and God’s blessing. No matter how low my mood, no matter how anxious I felt, caring for David Luke was part of my therapy. I was a new mom with new struggles in depression but to the glory of God, I emerged from that dark time with a new faith. New hope and new peace. The months turned into years and we added more kids. Quicker than most would. But never regretting it. David couldn’t remember when he had been an only child. Sister after sister came into his family. He, the only boy, led the way. He was our guinea pig. How do we raise a three-year-old, a four-year-old, a five-year-old and beyond? Would I cry over each of them boarding the school bus to be carted off to kindergarten? Were fits and stubborn streaks going to be the norm for the others? How could I be so frustrated and angry at a kid and at the same time look into his face and remember that infant? The one I so adored and still do. I look at his eight-year-old face now and I see a boy growing into a man. A husband and father in training. One who knows with great conviction the difference between right and wrong and who will readily enforce it. I see a creative just ready to share his gifts with the world. I watch as he displays kindness, affection, and leadership to his sisters. Underneath the colic turned strong-will, I see compassion and sensitivity. I see a heart that desires what’s good. A little boy struggling to do his best and make the right choices. He’ll be nine years old this summer. How can one describe what it’s like to be a parent beholding the growth of their child? It is as they tell you as a new parent, “The days are long, but the years are short.” I didn’t really understand or believe them then. I’m beginning to now. He’s the same boy who came into our lives that hot July night, yet he’s a different one entirely. I’m the same girl who didn’t know what she was doing as a new mom. I’ve learned many valuable lessons and tricks along the way but I still have no idea what I’m doing. As I picture in my mind’s eye my arms cradling a newborn son, I think of this emerging young man getting ready to take on the world on his own. He’s the same but different. I pray he’ll be more and more different but in a good way. In a way that helps others, that protects, and that lives in a right, good, and true way. This is my son. My first baby. My treasure I must let go of someday. David Luke.